


Wrought Iron Machine

by TalesOfOnyxBats



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Battle of the Bands, Drama & Romance, Drugs, F/M, Faking Incest, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mild Language, Piercings, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, Romance, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-11-17 16:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 39,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18101981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalesOfOnyxBats/pseuds/TalesOfOnyxBats
Summary: Summary: Wrought Iron Machine is in an 80′s style metal band. With rival band, Fire Of Agni on the rise, Kuvira begins to far that her band is past its prime and fading out of popularity. Between an in-band rivalry and a rocky engagement, she fears for how they will fare in battle of the bands.





	1. Wrought Iron Machine

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a remake of https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10927451/1/Iron-Lotus  
> I published that one about 5 years ago. I was going to simply update it but I kind of didn't like what I had started. This fic will be the same exact principal and theme but with a more solid direction and (imo) better writing.
> 
> I'd also like to note that this is a somewhat AU setting in that it takes place at the time of LoK but with the Avatar characters (Azula, Zuko, etc.) still in their teen years.

Kuvira nears a sleeping Gazhan, scowling to herself as she nearly trips over an empty beer bottle. The man is a mess. A hungover mess, it’s not the kind of image she wants for Wrought Iron Machine. She doesn’t want to be even in the same realm as Fire Of Agni with their trashy and shallow lyrics. All that those kids do is get drunk or high and make a mess of whatever venue is cursed with hosting their show. And that isn’t even factoring in the controversy they had most recently stirred and continue to stir. She nudges Gazhan awake. “Get yourself together, we have another show tonight.” It takes some furious willpower to not ask him what the hell he was thinking, why the hell he thought it would be a good idea to drink so heavily the night before a show. 

She knows the answer anyways. They had just finished their first show of the Fire Nation stretch of their world tour. She admits that it is reason enough to celebrate. But some restraint on his behalf would have been nice. 

 

“Come on, Gazhan.” She hisses, giving him another nudge. 

 

“Eh, leave ‘im.” Ming mutters sleepily. “Just let ‘im be.” 

 

Kuvira could swear that Ming is at least slightly hungover, herself. The two usually drink together, she won’t be surprised to find that last night had been any different. “I’ll let him be when I know he won’t make us late for our own show. We’ve been in this industry for nearly two decades now, and we haven’t cancelled or been late yet.”

 

Ming rolls her eyes. “When are you gonna pull that stick out of your asshole? This is rock ‘n roll, not some high-class business conference.”

 

Kuvira pinches her nose. She doesn’t have time to butt heads with Ming again. “Just make sure he gets up.” She still has to fix herself a cup of tea. Raava knows that her throat would soon depend on those. She sits herself down, staring at the memorabilia hung on the wall; golden record won during the height of their fame, a silver one from when they had first began, a cluster of medals and ribbons, and an even bigger slew of magazine pages and covers they had been featured on. 

 

Those are becoming fewer and fewer and she is beginning to wonder if their time in the spotlight is over. Maybe it has been for a while. People are moving onto the next big thing. Unfortunately, the next big thing seems to be Fire Of Agni. Kuvira doesn’t understand, it is just noise. Senseless noise and so much screaming. Screaming to the point where one could barely discern any of the lyrics--perhaps that is a mercy.

 

Kuvira finishes her tea and lights up a cigarette.

 

“What’s the point in having tea if you’re just gonna do that?” Baatar takes a seat across the table. There is an undertone of chiding about his words. 

 

She gives her fiance a pointed sigh. 

 

Hearing it he state, “you said that you were done with that.”

“Not now Baatar…” She brings the cigarette to her lips. 

 

“Then when?” He asks. “After your lungs are black and…”

 

She holds up a hand.

 

“How are you going to sing if you burn your lungs up?” 

 

It takes a deal of self-control to keep from slamming her hand on the table. She is tired of the well-meaning lectures. “Does it really matter?” She asked. “How much longer do you think Wrought Iron Machine is going to last? Do you remember when we played in Shu Jing, ten years ago? We sold out, the venue was overflowing. Now we just barely get it half-full.” 

 

“We sold out in Republic City, Zaofu, Omashu, and...”

 

“Of course we sold out in Zaofu, that’s our home city! We sell out in the Earth Kingdom all the time, it’s our home land.” 

 

“What about Repub--”

 

“Do you know who else sells out in the Earth Kingdom?”

 

Baatar frowns and, with a roll of his eyes, says it as she does, “Fire Of Agni.” 

 

“And they just debuted, what? A month ago? Yet we can’t even sell out one Fire Nation show anymore. We don’t even sell half of our tickets in the Tribes.”

 

“Does anyone sell out in the Tribes?” Baatar asks. 

 

“We used to…” She trails off. Her anger subsiding with it. 

Baatar takes her hand and plucks the cigarette from between her fingers and puts it out on the table. He squeezes her hand. She stares at the cigarette, still convinced that it truly didn’t matter. She is under the impression that she can’t sing like she used to no matter what she does. Many years of harsher vocal styles, a few instances of laryngitis, and a phonomicrosurgery later her vocal cords aren’t what they used to be. And she is only in her early forties. 

She can’t help but wonder if there was anything she could have done to prevent her case of polyps. 

Perhaps she should have listened when her doctors had cautioned her to take more breaks and write a few more ballads. 

 

Oh Raava, she could only imagine the abuse the Fire Of Agni girl’s throat and vocal cords were taking. At least Kuvira has some smooth vocals in her songs. From the sound of it, the girl does all of the screaming and her brother takes the clean vocals. 

 

“What are you thinking about?” Baatar asks. 

 

She doesn’t have time to answer when she hears a, “get your lazy, hungover ass out of bed, raavadammit!”

 

It is much too loud to be Ming. She hears a grumble and a snort and the shifting of blankets against a mattress. 

 

“Get the fuck up!” There comes the sound of something being thrown and then footsteps coming towards she and Baatar. P’Li yanks a chair out. 

 

“Morning P’Li.” Baatar greets. 

 

“He’s so fucking lazy. I swear.” She turns to Kuvira. “Got a light?” Every time a new stresser arose, so would the woman’s lighter. Not that Kuvira blamed her anymore. 

 

“Baatar just took my last.” 

 

“Of course.” P’Li grumbles. “Ya know, this is why we’re falling behind. Gazhan can’t even roll his lazy ass outta bed.” 

 

Kuvira rolls her eyes. Perhaps that is one of many reasons. “When are the two of you going to end this feud of yours? We can’t afford in-band fights when we have Fire Of Agni to rival.”

 

“It’ll end when Ghazan stops picking up groupie chicks and starts picking up his bass.” She pauses. “Fuck, you would think he’d notice how Ming looks at ‘im.”

 

A fair point. “As long as he’s ready by tonight, I suppose that it doesn’t matter.” And it doesn’t. It matters as little as she resuming her smoking habit. They are falling behind so she might as well do what she will. Her voice has already taken some damage, what is one more cigarette? She stares out the window as Yon Rha’s village comes into view. Is she even having fun anymore? Once upon a time, back when she was in her early twenties, back when they had only a few months under their belts, she approached every show with a sense of eagerness and giddy anticipation. Now she can’t even muster a shred of enthusiasm. Does she even like this anymore? Does she even want to do it? Is Fire Of Agni really destroying the metal scene for her that much?

 

When had things become less about the music and more about the fame?


	2. Fire Of Agni

Zuko tosses his beanie onto his night stand, nearly knocking down one of the bedside lamps, and flops onto the bed.

 

"Watch it Zu-Zu, I don't plan on handing the hotel any more of my money." Azula rolls her eyes. The girl is sitting before a mirror fumbling with one of the many small hoops adorning her ears. She is on the third, slowly removing them all. After which she plans on switching out her snake bites, and possibly the nose ring.

 

Image it is all about image, Azula decides--she has decided that back when they’d first started and it has gotten them into a hefty amount of trouble. If they are going truly make it the metal scene they will  have to look the part as well. Zuko is perhaps more into that idea than she is. In addition to his single ear piercing he'd got a whole mural of tattoos up and down his arms, over his chest, and on his back. Azula has lost track of exactly what art is painted beneath his hoodie. She hadn't planned on getting any ink done herself however Zuko had insisted that she at least got their band's logo on her arm. That's how she ended up with a trial of flames coiling around her arms and a charred rose just above her waist.

At this point she may as well uphold that image.

 

She pulls out the final piercing. 

They need this. 

Everything rests on their ability to make it in the scene. 

 

Everything. 

 

It sends trills of anxiety through her head every time she finds herself on stage. Every time she is pulled for an interview. It worries her more so wondering if Zuko, Mai, and TyLee can maintain their image. “Where are Mai and TyLee?” 

 

“They went to the pool.” Zuko answers. “I told them to get up here soon.”

 

"Well they better listen, we have a show tomorrow and I won't accept a performance that is anything less than perfect." Azula mutters. If she had, had her way they would have been practicing already. 

 

"Relax, TyLee only has to pound two sticks around and I'm sure Mai is capable of playing the bass just fine no matter how tired she is."

 

"Right." Azula twirls her bangs around her finger. She doesn’t believe him in the slightest. She has never played the drums or the bass for herself, but she can’t imagine that she could be absent of mind or out of practice when doing so. Sure, she could stand on stage, highly intoxicated and dreadfully tired, and spurt out any old lyrics so long is it had melody and good sound quality. But doing so would be careless. Careless and nowhere near as noteworthy as a genuine effort. And such can be applied to the drums and the bass. They require a real effort to be worth listening to. “If they aren’t up here in five minutes I’ll see to it, myself, that they are.” 

 

Zuko rolls his eyes. “Why are you being such a hardass?” 

Azula scowls to herself as she fusses with her nose ring. Sometimes she wonders if she is the only one who takes this seriously. If she is the only one who realizes just how much they need to win. 

 

She looks at their finances. She is about to become a bigger hardass. “You’re going to have to pass on your beer, Zuzu.”

 

He bolts upright. “How can you say that!?” 

 

“Because you can’t drink it without completely trashing the hotel room!” Azula accuses. “Look at this.” She waves the papers in his face. “We’re cutting into our music video funds to cover the damages.” 

 

Zuko grumbles something to himself. 

 

They are going to have to skip the hotel tomorrow night. Sleeping on the tour bus isn’t particularly optimal, but it is quickly becoming a must. 

 

“Where the hell are…”

 

The door opens and Azula hears a familiar giggle. They have barely entered the hotel room and she digs into them, “where have you been? I told you that we were going to practice at…”

 

“Relax.” Mai mumbles. 

 

“Come on Azula, all we ever do is practice.” TyLee states. “Can’t we have one day off?”

 

“Absolutely not.” It takes a considerable effort to keep her tone level. She really is the only one who gives a damn isn’t she? 

 

“Shouldn’t you rest your voice?” Mai asks. It is hard for Azula to gauge whether the question was born from true concern or of a more selfish whim. “You can’t keep screaming like that every day.” 

 

She can and she will. 

She has to. 

 

“At least pick a song or two with some clean vocals.” TyLee requests. It isn’t as unreasonable and Azula suspects that TyLee has some genuine concern. 

 

“We don’t have any of those, Ty.” Not with parts for her anyhow. Clean vocals and the acoustic guitar are Zuko’s things. Her specialties are the harsh vocals and the lead guitar.

 

“Then write one!” 

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Give yourself a guitar solo or something.” Mai shrugs. 

 

Now there is an idea she can work with. “I might be able to squeeze one in tonight.” But she isn’t sure if she should. Not so last minute. She needs time to finetune anything she does. “Perhaps tomorrow night…” Perhaps on the next album. The more she thinks about it, the less she fancies the idea of a random guitar solo.

 

Zuko rolls his eyes. “This is metal. Take a risk, people like risks.” 

 

It is one of the only good points he has made. She thinks, not fondly, of Wrought Iron Machine; they consistently played it safe and they were fading into obscurity. Azula won’t let the same fate befall Fire Of Agni. 

Thinking of their latest scandal, she wonders if one more risk will really matter. Their last stunt has given them a wealth of publicity. The kind that had propelled the onto the front pages of magazines and officially broke them into the scene. In retrospect it disgusts her. But it is putting their band where it needs to be and she will exploit it if need be. 

 

“Alright, fine.” Azula agrees. “I’ll throw in a guitar solo.” 


	3. Ink & Metal

The wail of Baatar’s guitar echos around the venue as it dies off. The sound of P’Li’s rhythm guitar had done so only seconds before. Taking a deep breath, Kuvira finishes off the acapella ending of the song. Once upon a time it had been a highly experimental move...to end a song with no instrumental backing. It had been a successful risk and it still does the trick when she decides to bring it back. 

The crowd bursts into a series of cheers, claps and, whistles. Louder and more intense than she has heard in a long while. And, for a moment, Kuvira remembers the jubilation of their early days. For a moment,  she feels as though she has regained some of the band’s former traction. 

 

She smiles down at the crowd and nods at their kind reception. It is the best she’s gotten since coming into the Fire Nation. She watches Ming toss her drumsticks into the air and then catch them again. It is something she does when she thinks that all eyes are on Kuvira and off of herself. This time she gets a few claps, so she does it again, this time giving the drums a few hits. 

Kuvira lets the impromptu display continue until the woman has had a full on drum solo complete with drumstick twirling and throwing. Ming ends it with a with a final toss and a final hit. The crowd cheers and she flicks one of the sticks into the crowd and then the other. 

 

P’Li and Gazhan mirror the action with their guitar picks. The crowd momentarily, but frantically congregates in the directions of them. Once all of the picks save for one per band member have been distributed, they take their bows. “You guys have been wonderful.” Kuvira notes. “I try not to pick favorites, but I think that this is one of our best crowds of this tour.”

 

Baatar nods in agreement. 

 

“How would you all like to take a picture with us?” She asks. The act of taking pictures with the crowd is a relatively new tradition, a trend started by Fire Of Agni and a few bands like them. As much as she loathes to admit it, it is a brilliant idea. A way to commemorate things and bring in a little more revenue. It isn’t very easy to distribute the photos taken and their film reel is limited so they have to pick and choose which crowds to take the shots with. The rarity of the photos typically warrant decent money when their record label auction them off. 

 

After claps and cheers of approval P’Li adds, “then give us your best Vaatu horns!” 

Many years in and Kuvira still has to laugh at whoever coined that term. Vaatu didn’t have horns, more like flared out whisps. No less she faces away from the crowd and slings an arm around Baatar and makes the hand sign with her free hand. 

 

The Hakodak camera flashes. It’s a fine model, she must say; a folding autographic model, black-brown in color. It isn’t the latest model, but it is nice enough to get the job done and still earn a few buyers. The camera flashes thrice more. Kuvira makes a mental not to look through the four images after they print and decide which one to keep. 

 

She leads them backstage and listens to the whooping and hollering until it becomes a familiar chanting of their band name, rather a shortened version. “Wrought Iron! Wrought Iron! Wrought Iron!” She lets them continue for sometime, building up the anticipation. “I think that they’re ready for us to come back out.” 

 

“Do we have to?” Gazhan asks earning him a glower from P’Li. 

 

“Yes.” Kuvira answers. “We do. This is our best show in a long time. Let’s end it that way.” She leads them back out and stands before the crowd once more. The cheering intensifies until she believes that it is reaching its peak. Kuvira nods in approval. 

They scream for her, for her band. 

Staring out at them is like looking at an army awaiting orders from a general. 

 

“I’d say that they’re in the mood for one more.” Baatar announces. He looks at Kuvira but she knows that he is addressing the crowd. 

They give another collective and affirmative cheer.  

 

“I don’t know about that.” Kuvira replies, eliciting a more energetic round of applause. “Maybe they are, after all…” She trails off. 

 

They begin chanting the band name again, it is nearly lost under cheers and whistles. 

 

“Alright, but you’re all going to have to convince Ghazan.”

 

And they go from chanting the band name to Ghazan’s. It isn’t quite the response she had in mind, but it will do. 

 

“Think you can handle this Ghazan?” P’Li asks.

 

Kuvira detects the taunt in her voice and goes tense. Raava, she hopes that they don’t start on stage. Not when they are having such a good night. And perhaps she is radiating this because Ghazan brushes the comment off and says, “I can. But can they?”  He points his guitar at the crowd and they go wild once more.

“I think that we’ve reached a decision.” Kuvira notes. “I suppose, since you’ve all been so kind, that we should play a new song.” 

 

“You all will be the first to hear it.” Baatar adds. 

 

The volume of the applause is greater than even before. This lot has a lot of energy. It lifts Kuvira’s spirit some. A smile spreads across her face, one that she couldn’t stop even if she had tried. Ming pounds out the first beats. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

Kuvira flops onto the bed and blows out a tired breath. She ought to unravel her braid and shower, but she hasn’t the energy. She said that they’d play one more song, their new one. But she played at least three or four. Raava, that crowd had been a good one. It had made her feel like they were in their prime days. 

 

“Are you going to get dressed for bed?” Baatar asks. 

 

She gives a dismissive hand flap, too drained to do anymore.

 

“Fair enough.” He chuckles. “I guess I’ll just sleep in my day clothes too.” 

 

Kuvira feels the bed dip as he crawls up next to her as he so often did. One of his hands slides to her hip and the other caresses her cheek as she presses her forehead against his. He kisses her good night. It is a rare moment, a moment where things aren’t so tense. A night so good that she can pretend that there is nothing wrong at all. Not with the band and not between the two of them. 

She squeezes his hand. 

 

She wants to savor the moment, to drag the night on. But sleep takes her without her consent. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

As soon as the sun rises, Kuvira is thankful that she has scheduled an off day. She is sore all over and her eyes still feel so heavy. She pulls herself upright feeling sluggish as all hell. The stretches she does as she stands, do little to ease the tension in her muscles. It is a familiar ache the kind that came in wake of dancing while managing an expensive microphone. Raava had she missed dancing, she wonders why she had stopped doing so on stage. She thinks back, unfondly, of accidently falling off of the stage. Of the incident that really set in motion their steady fall from grace. 

 

Sometimes, in sleep, the sound of her leg snapping still haunts her. It was such a sickly sound. A sickly feeling when the blood started welling and worse still, knowing that she couldn’t actually feel her leg. And faces, so many faces.

Watching. 

Judging. 

 

The magazines and newspapers had their work made for them. 

 

Such a slow physical recovery had at least given her time to write songs, but that had hardly made up for the sheer amount of cancelled shows. They still had half a tour left. A waste it had been. A shameful waste. She thinks that, that is why it is hard for them to gain traction in the Fire Nation. They can no longer be trusted to stick to a schedule. The more she thinks about it, the harder it is for her to decide what exactly is doing the most damage; the falling popularity in their style of music or their own unexpected mishaps and shortcomings.  

 

Kuvira pinches the bridge of her nose, determined to think about something else. This isn’t how she wants to start her morning after such an optimistic performance. She motions for one of their firebender roadies to lightningbend their portable oven--another relatively new invention--in to useable condition and begins fixing herself a hot cup of green tea. She enters the time into the portable oven and puts the cup within. 

 

As she waits for the thing to boil the water, she finds herself something to wear. Something very casual; a simple white T-shirt and a pair of green sweatpants. Baatar is already standing, shirtless, before the mirror when she gets there. Her eyes fall on the mechanical badger-mole he had tattooed on his chest during their first tour. He has another on his back, a large depiction of the mechsuit they had designed together. One day she ought to bring those costumes back on stage. 

She watches him fumble with his small gauge earrings. She isn’t all that fond of them, but she makes no mention of it, especially since she had kind of brought it upon herself. She had been the one to suggest getting them in the first place and suggested that everyone in the band get at least one--some extra metal for an Zaofu based metal band. 

 

While Kuvira has little ink of her own she admits to perhaps going  a little overboard with the piercings; an arch of rings on both of her brows—the final ring on her right brow linked by a small chain to a different piercing on her ear—a stud collar bone pierced, many more on her ears, and a lip ring. She has been considering getting a new nose stud.

 

She thinks of Ming-Hua. Ming who is a stark contrast to herself. Ming who isn’t as adventurous, she keeps it simple with only a small navel piercing… the woman didn't even get her ears pierced. 

 

And then she thinks of P'Li  who is also pretty simple—the woman was more of a tattoo type. The only piercing she had gotten was one on her arm, a small ruby stud that acts as an eye for her fiery tigerdillo tattoo. 

 

Ghazan is more like herself, having only one tattoo of Vaatu on his bicep but a collection of piercings. Most notably are his nipple rings, the man likes to make a point of reminding everyone of how much those had hurt. His ears are also pierced from top to bottom and more recently he had acquired himself some snake bites. 

 

Kuvira squeezes next to Baatar and begins quietly unraveling her braid. In the mirror she sees Baatar lean in and slip his arms around her middle as he cranes his neck to press a kiss to the back of her own. Right on the one tattoo she does have; a lotus flower opening into a cloud of teeny music notes.

 

“How’d you sleep?” 

 

“Very well.” She replies. 

 

“Good to hear. And how is your throat?”

 

She lifts her hand and gives him a ‘so-so’ gesture. It could certainly feel worse. She hears her roadie call to tell her that her drink is done. “Join me for some tea?” She knows by now that he isn’t a fan of the drink, but she still likes to ask. 

 

“I’ll pass.” He unhooks his hands and lets her return to her tea. 

 

Staring into her cup she tries to come up with a way to keep last night’s momentum going. She hopes she can cling onto her spunk for at least two more shows. It could do the band wonders. 

 

P’Li comes to sit next to her, slamming a magazine down onto the table with force enough to have some of Kuvira’s tea splattering on the table. “Look at this shit!”

 

Everything in the woman’s tone tells, Kuvira that she doesn’t want to. Either it is an article dragging them through the mud or something praising Fire Of Agni in a way they don’t deserve. No, she doesn’t want to know, but she looks anyhow.

 

Her nose crinkles in disgust. “That’s not the same picture is it?” She hopes that she is mistaken and that it is the one she’d already seen. 

 

“Nope, brand new.”

 

If it is attention that the Fire Of Agni members want, they are certainly getting it. Kuvira tosses the magazine in the trash, thanking Raava that she’d never go  _ that  _ far for publicity. 

What she doesn’t understand is why they need it, Fire Of Agni already has all eyes on them. Perhaps they want to completely overtake the spotlight. 

 

The magazine glares up at Kuvira from the rubbish bin. 


	4. What Kindles The Fire

Azula can’t say how many times she brushed her teeth that night. The things she is doing to keep the public engaged. Zuko is laying face down on the soft, plastered out of his mind and tangled in blankets and intertwined with Mai. On a normal night she would tell them to take it to a separate room. That night they were sleeping on the tour bus which only had one bedroom for the four of them to stay in. That night, even if she could tell them to get a room, she wouldn’t. Mostly because it is a more outright reminder that their little stunt is just as insincere as she hopes.

 

With her voice sore and hoarse, Azula flops onto her own mattress. “Ow!” TyLee bursts upright. 

 

“What are you doing on my bed?” Azula hisses.

 

“I thought that this was my bed.” She slurs. Looking around she comes to a realization. “Oh...whoopsie.” And she stumbles over to her bed. “You don’t own a rabaroo plush.”

 

“No kidding.” Azula mumbles to herself. She doesn’t own any of the stuffed animals piled on TyLee’s bed. It is bizarre to think that someone childish enough to own that many stuffed animals would be so intoxicated. But who was she to judge. 

Not after what she has just pulled. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

The press acts fast, reissuing the magazine depicting the first scandal and with it a new one. She reads the caption; something, something, another shocking performance. She tries not to look at the image for too long. She already regrets it, but their single hadn’t gained the traction she’d wanted it to. So she dug up an old attention getter. Soon that song had an almost record view rate when it premiered on the music mover channel.

 

For better or for worse, Fire Of Agni is on the tongues and minds of the general public. Even those who aren’t frequenters of the metal scene. They have people who don’t care for music at all, bickering over the authenticity of the image.

 

Forever imprinted in black in white, Zuko has his fingers curled in her hair and her lips are on his. Even if she discards this one, many more will be printed to take its place.

Apparently the kiss was convincing enough to have the gossips murmuring about the exact nature of the sibling’s relationship. Debating over whether or not it was genuine. 

Mostly people have it right, proclaiming that it had been for the cameras only. But a few remain convinced that she truly loves her brother.

 

Azula wonders if the extra attention has truly been worth it. She is losing herself, she thinks. They shouldn’t have to resort to this. Their music on its own should be enough. She thinks again of Wrought Iron Machine. She has met them once and briefly at their record label when they had only just been signed on. She doesn’t know if she likes or even respects Wrought Iron’s front woman. But the encounter has stuck with her. 

 

The woman had smiled at them, welcomed them into the industry, and wished them luck. Azula decides in an instant that she in fact  _ doesn’t  _ like the woman. She is too…

Too what?

Motherly?

Azula doesn’t know exactly. But she knows that she doesn’t like it. 

 

But she can’t seem to forget…

The woman had given her welcome to the entirety of Fire Of Agni. She then put a firm hand on Azula’s shoulder and, more hushed, spoke. “It’s easy to forget yourself. Don’t let it ruin you.”

 

She never specified what ‘it’ was. The fame? The money? The industry itself?

 

Azula stares at the picture with vehement anger and then her mind turns. She thinks of her father and suddenly she is almost proud of herself. No doubt the man is reeling and seething. Alone, that is nearly enough to compel her to do it a third time. 

 

Spite. 

Spite and attention. 

And fame. 

Hate and desperation too.

Those are the things that kindle Fire Of Agni. 


	5. Southern Air Sounds

Kuvira unfolds another letter. Mostly she has sorted through a stack of fanmail, with an occasional sprinkle of more hateful messages. She discards those, but not without a degree of thinking. Most of them aren’t worth much thought, but every now and again a hate message will come by that actually has some merit or a point buried beneath harsh words. She holds one such letter in her hand. The paper is crumpled and torn, its sender seeming rather careless--not that she expected he or she to put much effort into his or her hate. She stares at it for a good while. It stings like hell, but this person has a point. ‘ _ So thats wat getting old sounds like. _ ’ Raava, she is only in her forties, she doesn’t think that she is that old. The only thing that keeps her from taking it truly to heart is the writer’s apparent hatred of apostrophes. She may be old, but at least she remembers to add ‘h’s’ to her ‘what’s’.   _ ‘I remember when you guys used to keep me on the edge of my chair. Your music is borring. P.S. I used to lke you guys _ .’

 

Kuvira nearly laughs. Short, to the point, and blunt. The letter’s writer had to be in his or her teens. She almost tosses it alongside the other hatemail but, Raava if this person didn’t have a point. It takes a moment for it to set in, for her to gauge the underlying meaning. “Your music is boring.” She mutters to herself, translating it in her own mind. Exactly what makes a song boring?

 

The same old thing rehashed, she decides. 

It is hard to swallow, but the more she thinks about it, the more she knows that it is true. She has fallen into a comfort zone. A cozy spot in terms of lyrical themes and in beats and riffs. 

She isn’t taking risks, the kind that kept people on the edges of their chairs. Her mind elopes to Fire Of Agni. And it begins to make sense why they are so popular. For better or for worse--she thinks unfondly of incest invading the tabloids--they keep things interesting. Hell, their tracks are highly experimental. They always seem to have something new. And that girl, she has a presence. The boy too. He has fight in him. 

 

She admires them as much as she resents them. 

 

She folds the letter back up and tosses it into the trash. Perhaps she should mix things up like they used to. She pulls another letter from the stack as she mulls it over. This one looks more official. A cascade style microphone sprouting from a temple tower; Kuvira recognizes the seal. She breaks it and unfurls the letter tucked within. 

 

After skimming it over she stands up. “Baatar!”  The man jumps and she apologizes. “Gather the other three for me, I have some news.” 

 

Baatar rolls his eyes muttering a question about why she can’t just do it herself.

 

“Should I get you a microphone? I didn’t quite catch that.”

 

He rolls his eyes again. “Nothing.” 

 

P’Li is the first to join them at the table, with Ming following shortly after. She give Gazhan a solid five minutes before beginning, if the man wants to take his time then she will leave it to him to acquire the news himself. 

Kuvira sets the letter at the center of the table. “We’ve been invited to join battle of the bands.”

 

“Which one?” P’Li asks. 

 

“Southern Air Sounds.” Kuvira answers. 

 

“The S.A.S…” P’Li trails off quietly. Kuvira watches it sink in. “We were invited to the S.A.S.” 

 

There is the reaction she had been hoping for. The Southern Air Temples only open their doors to music only once every ten years, via invite only. The last time Wrought Iron Machine set foot in there was when they had been in their prime. At which point they had been around for only a half of a year. She recalls, fondly, walking amid the legends; from the traditional symphonic band, Tui & La to country/folk stars, Chong and the Nomads to the suave jazz band, Wong Shi Ton’s Waltz. Iron Wrought Machine was a new face, a new sound. They came at a time before screeching guitars and harsher vocals. They opened a door. 

No. 

They created a door. 

 

Even so, starstruck and overwhelmed, they hadn’t had a chance. They didn’t know their way about the industry enough to win. The exposure had been nice, the opportunity every bit as amazing as it should have been, but Kuvira still wishes that S.A.S would have taken place even a month or two later.  

 

It came as a horrible smack in the face to not receive an invite a decade later. She supposes that, that was when she had truly realized that they weren’t what they used to be. Now they have a chance, a real chance to break back into the scene. 

 

“We have approximately four months to prepare.” Kuvira announces. 

 

“Prepare for what?” Ghazan asks. 

 

“S.A.S!” Ming-Hua answers. “We’re going to S.A.S.” It is the most chipper she has heard the woman in a very long time. 

 

Kuvira doesn’t wait for Ghazan to take it in, he’d missed his window to do that. “We have four months to prepare, which means that we will finish out our Fire Nation tour and head back to Zaofu.” She pauses. “Once we are home we will begin the song writing process. Southern Air Sounds expects at least three new songs. We will make four.” 

 

“Four?” Ghazan asks. “Raava’s tendrils, you’re nuts.” 

 

Kuvira shrugs, as far as she is concerned he wavered his rights to a valuable opinon when he decided to show up late and scraggly looking. “After that, we will discuss costuming, stage props, and a music mover…”

 

“I hear that they are making those in color now.” Baatar points out. 

 

Kuvira lets the interruption slide. “Southern Air Sounds also expects that we have at least one music mover, so the making of one isn’t up for debate.” This elicits a groan from Ghazan. 

 

“You fuckkin’ kidding me?” P’Li grumbles. “We have an opportunity and you’re looking at it like it’s a burden.” 

 

“It is a burden, do you know how much work it takes to…” 

 

“For you it takes just as much effort to roll your ass outta bed as it does to make one video.” P’Li scowled. 

 

“He works hard.” Ming-Hua puts in. “You just don’t see it.”

 

P’Li laughs. “Wan Shi Tong himself, wouldn’t be able to see it.” 

 

Kuvira pinches the bridge of her nose. “Enough!” She lowers her voice. “If we are going to win S.A.S this time around, we are going to have to put these kinds of trivial disputes to the side. Resume them after the competition, if you must.” 

 

Ming opens her mouth but Kuvira raises from her chair and lifts a hand. It isn’t up for debate this time. “I have been working with you all for around thirty years. Believe it or not, I still have high expectations for all of you.” She clasps her hands behind her back and gives a pointed stare to Baatar, “and you don’t get a pass just because you put a ring on my finger.” 

 

Baatar chuckles. “I figured.” 

 

She wanders over to the fridge and pulls out a bottle. The reserved for special occasions only. “I know it’s still early, but I think we’ve earned it.” She puts the bottle on the table.

 

“Hell yes.” Ghazan whispers to himself, she allows him the pleasure of popping the bottle as she sets out the glasses. “Can I?” 

 

“You may.” Kuvira nods. 

 

She watches Ghazan pour the champagne. It has been a grand few days. “To a chance at a real comeback.” 

 

“To a chance at a real comeback.” They echo.

 

Kuvira turns away from her bandmates and wipes a tear from her eye. It would seem that they weren’t fading into obscurity just yet. Wrought Iron Machine will have a place among the legends. She owes it to herself, to that little girl who was left abandoned in the streets. 


	6. Off

Zuko pushes his chair in with a force that shook the table. "Careful with the equipment!" Azula snaps. Zuko has steadily 

 

grown more and more irritable as their recording session went on. "What's going on with you?"

 

"What's going on with  _ me _ !?" He asks. "What's going on with  _ you _ ?"

 

Azula rolls her eyes. They don't have time for this. 

 

"I want a break Azula!" He declares. "We haven't had one since we began touring. I though that you left this next week 

 

concert free so we could have one."

 

"I was kinda hoping for a day of too." TyLee mumbled softly. 

 

Azula sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. Did they really need an on-tour recording session? Perhaps she is pushing 

 

them too hard. She must admit that her throat hurts like hell. "Alright, fine." She caves. "We can have the week off..."

 

"You sound like you need it." Mai remarks off-handedly. She hopes that Mai is referring to her hoarse voice and not her demeanor. 

 

"Oh, thank you Azula!" TyLee exclaims. "You're the best!" She throws her arms around Azula. "Now I can go and get my hair 

 

done and give Haru a call."

 

"Haru?" Azula asks. "Why would you call Haru?"

 

"Because he's sooo cute." TyLee beams. 

 

Azula begs to differ but she won't tell TyLee how to waste her time. She watches Zuko and Mai wander back to the tour bus, she could follow them but she knows what they have in mind. She has kept them deprived for a while. So that left her to decide how she wants to spend her day. She supposes that she can fill it with exploring the Earth Kingdom. Gaoling was a nice enough city, wedged within steep and craggy hills. It hosts an assortment of shops and traditional Earth Kingdom eateries. For awhile she and TyLee walk side by side making mundane conversation but then TyLee breaks off to step into the hair cutter’s building and Azula is alone.

 

She decides to give the closest restaurant a try. Azula had never been particularly fond of Earth Kindom cuisine, vastly preferring the spice and tang of the Fire Nation. By comparison the food here seems almost bland. She pushes it around with her chopsticks for a few minutes before actually eating it. 

 

Eventually, she pushes her dishes aside and heads back to the tour bus. She doesn’t put any thought into her team of bodyguards, or lack thereof, until she feels a hand on her shoulder. 

 

“You’re from Fire Of Agni aren’t you!” 

 

She lets the fire die in her palm. “That’s correct.” 

 

“Oh. My. Raava!” The boy squeals. 

 

“Not so loud.” Azula hisses. She doesn’t particularly mean to be rude, not to a fan, but the last thing she wants to deal with is a swarm of camera wielding, question spouting, paparazzis. And, Agni, with the kiss scandal fresh out of the press, they would have a lot to ask. 

 

“Oh...sorry.” His voice drops. “I’m just so excited! Where are the other three.” 

 

“Enjoying their day off, I suppose.” Azula shrugged. 

 

“I’m so glad I get to meet you!” He holds out a pen and paper. 

 

Azula takes it and signs it.  She supposes that she will either have to remember her bodyguards or get used to encounters like so. Not that being a princess hadn’t earned her plenty of attention. But subjects and fans were different breeds. She is still trying to get a feel for Fire Of Agni’s fandom. A good lot of them were as fierce and crude as the image Azula and the rest of her band try to craft.

 

**.oOo.**

 

As wonderful as this little waste of a week has been for her voice, it is horrid for her state of mind. She is growing restless. It leaves her too much time to think, dwell, and regret. She looks around the tour bus bedroom. It seems that, once again, she is the last one awake. She lies on her back with her hands clasped atop her middle, staring at the ceiling. 

 

She is more than okay with Zuko slumbering, in fact she avoids him as much as she can. She rolls onto her side with a drawn out exhale. She has too much to think about. Mostly she thinks of home. For as many songs as she writes about it being broken and dreadful, she misses it. She misses her father. The very man who they regularly tear apart with vulgar lyrics and unkind shoutouts. She misses him so terribly. Misses when he would tuck her bangs behind her ear and tell her how much potential she has. She misses having not failed him.

Azula draws the covers more tightly around herself. 

 

“You still awake?” Zuko’s voice cuts through her dismal thinking. 

 

She pretends to be asleep.

 

“I know you’re awake. You used to do this when we were kids…” he trails off. 

 

She shifts slightly. 

 

“You’re going to have to talk about this some time.” He grumbles. “How long do you think we can avoid it before it starts to affect our music?”

 

Azula groans. “It was a kiss Zuzu.” She pauses. “That’s it.” And it served its purpose. 

 

“If it was just a kiss then why have you been avoiding me?” 

 

“I want to make sure others know, that it was just a kiss.” Azula replies. But that’s just the thing, as much as she wants to put that drunken publicity stunt behind her, she may need to exploit it again. 

 

“Just admit that we were drunk.” 

 

“And what, have the police squad handing us a fine? We need that money for our videos and equipment. How many cymbals has TyLee gone through already?” The girl isn’t exactly careful. 

She doesn’t confess that she has every intention of bringing their scandal to a new peak if her voice can’t draw as much attention as she wants it to. 

 

“Well...well…” Zuko trails off. “Well. Just stop making things weird.” She can practically see the pout on his face. “We were just starting to fix what our dad messed up. I want us to be real siblings…”

 

“Will you two go to bed.” Mai grumbles. 

 

“You have one more day off.” Azula replies. “You can sleep in.” Even so, she doesn’t fancy Mai peeping on a touchy and borderline sappy conversation like this. And to Zuko she closes the discussion, “look, Zuzu, I’m not going to let it affect our music. Not now that we’ve been invited to S.A.S.”

 

“We were invited to…”

 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

 

“Or after our day off?” Mai asks. 

 

Azula rolls her eyes. “Fine.” She needs to fine tune her attack plan anyhow. She knows that they will need a few new songs, she simply needs to decide if they want to go for quantity or quality. If she gets her way, they will have both. She knows that the thought will follow her to sleep.

 

She starts to drift into it when Zuko speaks again. “I’m not worried about the music.” He reiterates. “I’m worried about how it will affect us.” 

 

“It won’t.” Azula vows. Yet, somehow, she isn’t quite convinced herself. Fire Of Agni seems to be revealing more uncertainty and instability than she had initially anticipated. She is no longer thinking of how to approach S.A.S. The image of she and Zuko won’t leave her mind. That is what follows her to sleep. 


	7. A Fool's Dream

It is almost distracting, the notion of part-taking in S.A.S again. Her mind wanders some during the performance. She wonders if she should remake some of their old songs with a new flavor, that seems like a good way to ease into trying something entirely new. She leans closer to the crowd and belts out the final note, holding it a few beats longer than she would normally. She waits for the instruments to die out, holds the note a little longer, and drops off as well, letting the final note echo about the venue. She dips her head and her braid falls over her shoulder. She takes a deep breath and looks up as the applause sounds. 

 

As they had done the last time, Kuvira leads Wrought Iron Machine backstage and allows the crowd’s anticipation to swell into a climax before re-emerging. She has something special in mind, a way to end the show memorably. “Capital City!” She addresses. “Are you ready for one more song?” 

 

She lets the cheers and claps answer for themselves. 

 

“Let’s do it then.” P’Li shouts. 

 

She decides to go with one of their first songs, ‘In Rafters’. A little ode to the days when she’d taken up parkour as a hobby. A particular night when she had climbed to the highest skyscraper in Republic City, reaching the top at the climax of a sunset. It had been an accomplishment to say pridefully that she had done it without metal nor earthbending. 

 

The song opens with no instrumental backing. Slowly, Ming enters with her drums and then P’Li subtly works her way in with her lead guitar. Baatar enters with his rhythm guitar next and then Ghazan with his bass until they have a full and powerful song. 

 

Only when the song reaches its full speed and intensity, a point where the guitars wail the loudest and Ming’s drum beats per minute increase to her fastest does Kuvira lift her hands to create a flare of metal. Shifting it until it spiked out and glittered in the spotlights. She will leave pyrotechnics to the firebenders, she rather enjoys an explosion of metal in place of a shower of sparks. 

 

Time and time again, P’Li suggested using fire--and perhaps she will one day--but Kuvira likes what they have. It separates them from other bands. Kuvira lifts the raises the final metal spire and climbs atop it and leans towards the crowd for the final verse. 

 

It is another successful performance with another successful encore. She can’t say that Capital City beat the reception they had in Yon Rha’s Village, but it is a success no less. A rather strong way to end their Fire Nation tour if she must say. It is enough to keep her mood elated and optimistic.

 

Which is why it throws her off when a bought of melancholy and perhaps even doubt works its way in as she lies awake. She doesn’t know where it has come from and she has half the mind to ask P’Li for a light. She puts a hand to her head, she has decided once and for all that she won’t fall back into old habits. Southern Air Sounds has given her the extra push she needed to resist. 

 

But the sudden wave of stress pushes her towards a smoke. Instead she inhales sharply and nudges Baatar awake. 

 

"You’ve had a long night. Why aren't you asleep yet?" He replies after a brief period of quite.

 

She can’t answer, because she can’t exactly place the reason herself. Maybe the past has decided to surface itself again because she had ended her tour with such a nostalgic song. She was so young…

Finally she answers. "I’m just thinking. Thinking too much perhaps."

 

"About?"

 

It is a great many things with varying degrees of distressfulness. So she starts with the least pressing, the one that everyone on that bus could understand. “I’m just wondering. How it is that we can have a rivalry with a band that's only about a month old…a band that's made up of four  _ children _ ."

 

"It only took them that month to ruin our tour." Baatar points out. “And they sure can drink like adults…”

 

"Maybe we should just forget about that." Kuvira mutters, had Fire Of Agni even ruined their tour or had they just been trying to shift the blame? “We’ve never even met them.” She doesn’t think that their brief encounter truly counted as meeting them. Frankly, the more she thinks about it the better it sounds. They have enough to worry about without fueling their little petty feud. For the time being Kuvira is rather content to let the past be the past. And in this day and age there is quite a lot she'd like to put behind her. P’Li’s even pettier fude with Ghazan, for one. The one that is putting a rift in their band, the one that is probably part of what had almost ruined their tour. More pressingly she itches to forget, once and for all, about the lack of support her parents provided.

That above all else is what keeps her awake on that night.

That above all accounts for the sudden was of somber. 

 

Southern Air Sounds is the most important show she'll ever lead her band through…the last true shot to bring them back into relevancy. The best shot she has to find a name for them among the legends, among the musical game changers. And her parents can’t be bothered to come, not that she expects them to. She had lost contact with them long ago and has long since let go of her dream; the hope that they would see her in the headlines or on a mover screen and go out of their way to seek her out and reconnect.

 

“They make themselves hard to forget.” Baatar replies. 

 

But Kuvira has already moved on from that subject. She doesn’t mean to jump around on her fiance, but something bothers her so much more than Fire Of Agni. “I was only eight when I took a shine to singing. I was fond of Jazz.”

 

Baatar sat up and furrowed his brows. “Where’d that come from.” She detects a chuckle. 

 

“I signed up for a school talent show, I did a cover of a Rough Rhinos song.”

 

That time her words elicit a blunt chuckle. “Of course you did.” 

 

“I practiced every night and I won. I did all of my school work. I kept my grades up. They still didn’t like it…” She trails off. 

 

“They?”

 

“My parents.” She clarifies. “After I received my trophy I ran up to my mother smiling like an idiot. I was proud. Because I worked hard, and I won. I beat the older children.” She pauses. “I thought that they were going to congratulate me. I thought that my mother was going to hug me and that my father was going to ruffle my hair and say, ‘good job Ku-Ku’. Instead they were quiet the whole way home.”

 

She leaves Baatar room to ask questions or make commentary, but he doesn’t fill the silence. 

 

“We got home and had dinner. After that I got a lecture about how singing, painting, writing, all of that, were to be hobbies only and nothing more. That I shouldn’t get so invested just because I won a single competition for children.”

 

Kuvira sees Baatar go tense. She has told him about her abandonment before, in fact it had been one of the first things she spoke with him about. But she has never given him the details, just little hints as to how much it hurt and still hurts.

 

“A few nights later the school hosted a teacher to parent meeting. My teacher--her name slips me--decided to show my dream book project to my parents. She didn’t know…” 

 

“Didn’t know what?”

 

Kuvira gives a bitter laugh, “How my parents were.” She dabs at a tear that managed to escape. “It was on the last page. There was a question about dream careers. Do you know what I filled in, Baatar?”

 

“You said that you wanted to be a rockstar?”

 

“No. I wanted to sing in a Pop-Jazz trio. I even wrote some lyrics.” 

 

“We should use those in a song!” Baatar tries to ease the tension. 

 

And it works, but only for a moment. “I’d rather have P’Li blast me to pieces.” She meant it as a joke, but the look on her face said that her tone had been too deadpan or too dismal. 

 

“Don’t say things like that.” He mumbled. 

 

Kuvira rolls her eyes. “Do you  _ really  _ think that I actually want that?”

 

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell with you.” He mumbles. 

 

Kuvira sighs and gets back on track, with a dismissive wave. “Anyhow, I also wrote my idea of what a perfect stage performance would look like. I was scared, Baatar. When they saw that page, I was scared. I thought that my mom was going to slap me. But...but…” Kuvira falters. “But she...she smiled. Father said that it was ‘cute’ and ‘refreshingly optimistic’. But as soon as we got away from my teacher and into the car, it was ‘a silly dream’. My mother asked me if I was serious about that dream. And father told me that it was nonsense and I’d never get anywhere. I don’t got a word in.” It wouldn’t have mattered if they had given her time, she recalls vividly that she had been crying much too hard to get out anything tangible. 

 

“They didn’t…”

 

“No. They didn’t hit me. They let me sleep in my bed, as usual. The next morning…” she wraps her arms around her middle, her head dipping some. “The next morning I was on the streets. For parting words my father told me that, it didn’t matter because the streets would be where I’d end up anyways. He said that there was no sense in delaying the inevitable.” It had been cruel.

She takes in a shaky breath. Raava, she could use a cigarette. 

 

Baatar opens and closes his mouth a few times before settling on simply pulling her closer to him, muttering apologies for crimes that aren’t his own. He strokes her hair. “I had to prove him wrong Bataar. I  _ have  _ to prove him wrong.”

 

“You already have?”

 

“He’s waiting for our spotlight to burn out, I know that he is.” Kuvira remarks. “We have to win.”

 

“We’ll be fine. All we need to do is get Fire Of Agni out of the way.”

 

Kuvira sits up straighter. “No.” She says firmly. “All we need to do is  _ forget  _ about Fire Of Agni, and focus on Wrought Iron Machine.” 

 

Baatar swallows. “Kuvira…”   
  


“We’re putting too much energy into them and not enough into the music.” Just in case he wants to debate more, she adds, “they  _ want  _ attention anyways.”

 

Baatar’s lip curves up. “That’s true.”

 

With a soft yawn, Kuvira snuggles up against Baatar again. “I just want to prove them wrong…” 

But is it really?

No. Deep down she knows that what she really wants is to win her parents’ affection. 

 

“Don’t worry about them. You have Su and the rest of our family. My mom has been wanting to catch a show since we left the Earth Kingdom.” 

 

Our family.

The notion was reassuring. It isn’t the family she was born into, but it is a family. A family that will welcome her back home. 

 

“Get some sleep.” Baatar says. “You’re going to need it if you want to prove your point.”

 

She is already drifting into sleep.


	8. Worn

Sometimes she likes to pretend that the crowd below her are her subjects. It makes it easier, for a time, to accept that her title has been striped from her. They act like subjects; they cheer for her, they idolize her, they sing when she tells them to sing and scream when she tells them to scream. 

But for the time, the screaming is left to her and it is beginning to take its toll. Agni, she hopes that she has enough left in her for the recording of new songs. TyLee is beating her drums at what Azula thinks is record speed. For herself, she shouts out lyrics so heavy in harshness, the lyrics are indistinguishable. There is a comfort in that; no one will be able to tell if she stumbles over the words. 

 

She is growing tired. It is an effort to put on the kind of show that Fire Of Agni is known for. To claw at her hair and scratch at her skin, but with a very conscious effort to keep from doing any real damage. 

She falls to the floor and Zuko with her, and finishes off the last song. Typically they finish with pyrotechnics, but this time she mixes it up. A little tester for something she’d like to do at Southern Air Sounds. 

 

Faking a breakdown, she decides is almost more tiring than the real thing. The real thing leaves her feeling numb. In fact, she barely remembers the real thing. Whereas this…? This, she can feel everything; the cold of the floor against her cheek, the scratchiness of her throat left raw from screaming. At S.A.S there will be the discomforts of fake blood.

 

When the echo of the instruments dies down, she picks herself up. The crowd is terribly loud. Loud and excited. Chanting, “F! O! A!” endlessly. Azula wants to feel a sense of accomplishment at such a wild and excited energy. It is the sort she has been looking to elicit since their debut. But her body feels weak. The days she has gone without a break between shows are finally catching up with her. She wants to crumble back to the floor. She mumbles a few hasty parting words, a quick thanks for coming--she’ll leave the rest to Zuko--and lays herself down behind closed curtains.

 

She listens to Zuko close, something-something, “and join us for another kickass time at the Southern Air Temples!”  She isn’t really paying attention, she just wants to sleep. And now that their last show of the tour is over, she can. At least for a few days before it is time to attend an interview and then hit the recording studio.

 

“Did you see that crowd?” Zuko asks as he enters the backstage area. 

 

On a normal day, Azula would have rolled her eyes and muttered something akin to, “Zuzu, I was facing them the whole time.” That day she realizes that she actually hadn’t. The performance itself had taken so much energy.

There has to be some sort of balance, she thinks to herself as the conversation carries on without her.

 

“They were going nuts!” TyLee remarks of the crowd. 

 

“I think that that was the largest pit, we’ve had so far.” Mai comments.

 

“What encore song are we doing?” Zuko asks. Just like that, Azula is aware of the chanting. 

 

She cringes. Tired as she is, she can’t end the final show of their first Earth Kingdom tour with a disappointed crowd. Rubbing her eyes and then her head, she stands herself back up. “We’re going to try something new.” 

 

She notices Zuko tense.

 

“I haven’t even told you what we’re doing.” Azula grumbles.

 

He looks at her expectantly. 

 

“This time you’re going to be doing the screaming and I’m going to sing.” She pauses. “Mai and TyLee, the two of you are going to pray that Zuzu doesn’t fuck it up.”  _ That I don’t fuck it up _ , but she leaves that unspoken.

 

**.oOo.**

 

Azula is asleep as soon as she flops onto the bed. It is the first time they have dropped money on a hotel in a while. Zuko turns to Mai with a hint of concern. The same kind he can see in TyLee’s wide-eyed stare. Mai only laughs, “maybe now we’ll get a real break.”

 

Zuko pulls her out of the room. “I’m worried about her.”

 

“I don’t know, I kinda like her like this.” Mai shrugs. “No more orders, less stress.”

 

“I think that she might be getting sick…”

 

Mai sighs. “Relax, Zuko. She’s just tired.” 

 

He returns the sigh. Maybe she was right--tonight was the last show of their tour and she has been pushing herself very hard. He follows Mai back into the room to find TyLee rubbing Azula’s back as his sister slumbered. She is out cold, he doesn’t remember the last time he has seen her sleep like that.

He doesn’t want to anyways. 

But he does… 

 

He tries not to dwell on it, instead taking in how nice it is to have so much space again. Tonight he and Mai will have their own room, they have been due for some alone time. He can imagine that Azula wants some alone time with TyLee. But he also isn’t sure that she will actually awake until late in the afternoon the next morning. He turns to Mai, mustering the most stern and serious look that he can. “Don’t give her a hard time for waking up late tomorrow.” He mutters. Spirit World knows that she’ll push herself twice as hard if she got shit for giving herself a break.

 

Mai rolls her eyes. “I’ll keep it to myself.” But he detects a very rare hint sympathy in her voice. 

 

He spares a glance over his shoulder at Azula. She is still dressed in her stage costume, hasn’t even showered. She is definitely and indisputably wiped.


	9. The Birth Of Talent

It is good to see the walls of Zaofu again. Kuvira watches Baatar embrace his mother, father, and siblings in turn. P’Li rolls her eyes at each drawn out hug. “This guy’s too fluffy.” She comments. Though Kuvira found Baatar’s connection to his family to be rather enduring. 

 

“Let him have his moment, P’Li.” Ghazan remarked. 

 

P’Li opened her mouth. But Kuvira speaks first, intending fully to stop that squabble before it can truly begin. “how about we ask Suyin where you guys will be rooming.”

 

“I sleep where I want.” Ming mutters. The woman refuses to sleep anywhere that isn’t a couch. Kuvira sighs, deciding that she will let Suyin deal with that one. 

 

The lady in question approaches her. “And how have you been, Kuvira?”

 

“Well enough, I suppose.” Kuvira answers. Truth be told, she is exhausted. “That tour kept me busy.” 

 

“Baatar has been well?” 

 

Kuvira nods, deciding to leave the petty disputes unspoken. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to him, you know that.” She thinks mostly back to the time when a hoard of fans managed to pull him off of the stage. That had been quite a night--one that ended with her in a cop car. She’d landed a few good punches, before they escorted her away. And Wrought Iron Machine had their first scandal. The first thing that had the general public declaring that, “this new type of music promotes violence and disharmony.” Kuvira had to roll her eyes at that one, and at Ming who was thrilled to, once again, be a part of some sort of discord. Kuvira had been released the next morning with stern warnings not to stir up trouble again, as though she were the one who’d started it in the first place. 

 

Suyin set a hand on Kuvira’s shoulder. “I’ll see all of you at dinner.” 

 

Kuvira makes her way down the hall. It has been so long since she’d seen this room. Suyin hasn’t touched it. Her old posters still hung arranged in alphabetical order by band name. Her dancing shoes were still laying in front of the closet and her first guitar (though she hasn’t actually learned to play any more than one song) still leaned in the corner. She sits on the edge of the bed, finding that the half-read book she’d left there hasn’t been moved either. She thumbs through the pages until Baatar joins her on the bed. “When are we going to start the songwriting process?” 

 

“Does tomorrow sound good to you?” She asks. For the time being she is fine with a little break. She trails her fingers over his chest. “I think that we’ve earned some time to ourselves.”  With a few hand gestures she metalbends the door’s locks into place. 

 

“I think that you might be right.” He kisses her neck and follows her down to the mattress. She slips her hand under his shirt, tracing from his abdomen up as he runs his hands along her sides. 

 

What is it that the magazines say; drugs, sex, and rock ‘n roll. Clearly they have been missing out on one of the three. 

Baatar unravels her braid as she pushes herself more firmly against him. They couldn’t do this with P’Li, Ghazan, and Ming always present. 

 

Another kiss or two and she has his shirt discarded, taking in abs that have only become more prominent since their tour began. He dips down and runs his tongue over the piercing on her navel. 

 

Raava it has been so long, she had forgotten how enticing that was. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

She wakes with her hair in tangles to the sound of the television. She untangled herself from the sheets and slips into her underwear and a tank top. “Good morning, Baatar.” 

 

“A good morning after a great night.” He mumbles. 

 

She combs her hair, trying to decide if she wants a shower or breakfast first. Eventually she settles on taking the shower, it is closer anyhow. Of course, she will have to comb her hair all over again. She doesn’t know why she had bothered dressing upon waking. She thinks that it is mostly out of habit. 

 

She emerges from the shower to see Baatar looking furiously at the television screen. Quietly she sits down next to him.

 

“And what was the inspiration for your song, Burn Away?”

 

The boy on the screen points at the scar on his face. 

 

“How did that happen?” The interview questions.

 

In answer, the boy only folds his arms over his chest with a, “hmmph.” So the interviewer turns to the girl. “When people look at you, I doubt that they expect you to have a voice like  _ that _ .” The man doesn’t need to elaborate for Kuvira to know what he is referring to. The Fire Of Agni girl is such a small thing. Small and petite, and elegant. It is hard to imagine such harsh and powerful vocals coming from such a teeny body.

 

Her speaking voice is so smooth, “you’re right, they don’t.” 

 

Kuvira is almost curious as to how her clean singing would sound. 

 

“Where did you learn to sing like that?” The man asks. 

 

An expression, almost indistinguishable appears on her face. Something between pride and hurt. A smirk contrasted by a flicker of sorrow in her eyes. “At this point…” she pauses. “At this point, most people seem to know about…” another pause. “My stay at Lava Lakes.”

 

Kuvira recalls hearing something or another about the former princess having been institutionalized, though she hasn’t bothered to keep up with that story. As far as she is concerned, it’s none of her business no more than it is the princess’ business than she had been abandoned as a child. 

 

The interviewer nods and the girl keeps talking. “Before that, I was on the ground screaming and breathing fire.” 

 

Kuvira can’t suppress a shudder. There is something truly dark about know that the girl has learned of her talents through madness. It adds an almost haunting undertone to the more pained sounding songs. 

 

She stands, deciding that breakfast is well overdue. 

But the thoughts follow her. The notion that she and her band have directed so much hatred at a child who has already seen straitjackets and medication and a boy whose face had been charred. 

 

If she hadn’t already made the decision to drop their feud, she certainly has now.


	10. Earning Funds

Azula rubs at her forehead. Just how the hell are they supposed to make a good mover on such a tight budget? Really, she has no one but herself to blame. Had she not decided to spend their money on a hotel room just a few nights prior, they might have, on hand, an extra hundred or so to drop. The tour itself, sold out in most venues, had generated a decent amount of cash but that has been spent on hotels and equipment for future stage shows. 

 

Sure, music movers aren’t required of them for Southern Air Sound, but they are too new of a band to not make a bold impression. She is going to have to get extraordinarily clever this time around.

 

Ideally they would get a ship to Ember Island and shoot their mover there, but it is no longer an option, they can’t spend the entirety of their funds on tickets to the filming location. They are going to have to settle for one of the mainland volcanoes. 

 

It is more than frustrating to have her creativity crippled by a lack of funding. Had she been in good graces with her father, things might be different. As things were she had chosen to sympathize with Zuko when he got himself banished. She had been a fool then and she is a fool now. 

 

The band became their only mean of getting by, of having clothes and a meal and it is failing. She should have pleaded for her crown while her father still pitied her. She could have gotten away with a good beating and less freedoms. But at least she would have security. 

 

Even is she wanted to go begging, the option is just as nullified as filming on Ember Island. Her father would have nothing to do with her after she’d made a spectacle of herself, shouting at nothing and no one as her mind fractured and halved. It had been too much to handle, to lose everything at once. To have only Zuko as the people, her former subjects, spat and scoffed at them. To have her stomach empty and aching most nights of the week. To become everything she used to mock people for. 

She can’t return to that. 

It isn’t an option. 

 

She rubs her hands over her face, it is exhausting. Especially so, knowing that she has dragged Mai and TyLee into this. Her father had praised her for her sharp mind and clever schemes, but where were they now? Now that she needs a grand plan. 

She is so tired. 

 

She looks at the camera resting near her.

She could fight with her mind some more. Eventually it would produce something both splendid and within their budget.  

Or,they could do it once more, just a little something to bring in the funds they will need to make the music video in her mind come to life. 

 

“Mai, I have a job for you.” 

 

“What kind of job?” 

 

“You’re going to play paparazzi.” She paused. “You’re going to take a little picture and then you are going to craft a disguise and sell the photo.”

 

“And what are you going to do?” 

 

“The hard part, Mai.” She isn’t sure if the hard part will be getting Zuko to comply or going through with it herself. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

She finds that it is truly a lot harder to go through with it herself. A couple words about how they needed to win and how they’d be on the streets again if they didn’t handle their budget was compelling enough for Zuko. 

 

“Can we just get this over with?” Zuko asks. She can see it in his eyes that he is working to shut his brain off.  She wills herself to do the same. 

 

“Yes.” 

She tries not to think too much as she moves closer to him. Not a soul in sight, not a camera save for Mai’s. Even with the woman hiding behind the bushes, making off as if she were trying not to get caught, she could sense the appalled look on her face. Perhaps she should have recruited TyLee to snap the photo. But Mai’s presence helped remind Azula that it is all an act. 

 

Zuko slids his hand under her shirt, just enough to make it look convincing. No less, she shudders at the brush of his fingers. She goes to lean in and she sees the camera flash. She thanks Mai for that, she pulls herself away from Zuko without a word. 

 

“You know what to do.” She mumbles as hurries passed Mai. 

 

She catches Mai nod before slipping onto the tour bus. She wants nothing more than to bathe, but their bus only provided a roof and a kitchen. The bath houses cost money if they want privacy. At this point privacy is more of a need, lest she find a picture of her naked chest in the magazines. No, she will have to wait until it is at least two in the morning, when no one else goes to the bath houses. 

 

She spreads herself out on her bed. What kind of life is she living anymore? She has only ever heard stories of musical stars and mover stars living in luxury. Is Fire Of Agni a real band at all?

 

They will be, she vows, as soon as they win Southern Air Sounds. 


	11. The Deviant

Kuvira stares Baatar down quite furiously, she has no intention of backing down on this one. 

 

“We can’t do a song like that.” He insists. “Combining the two styles.” He pauses. “They just don’t work together. 

 

The more he speaks, the more steadfast she grows. Wrought Iron Machine is her band, she had been the one to form it. She crosses her arms and her frown deepens. “We need to do something new.”

 

“That’s fine. We can do something new.” Baatar agrees. “Just not  _ that _ .”

 

“We are doing  _ that  _ or we will do nothing at all.” She knows very well that he is aware that she wouldn’t make good on this threat. Southern Air Sounds meant too much to her.

 

“Look, I like metal. I like Jazz. But they should be kept seperate.” Baatar replies. “We should do something like what Tui & La did and…”

 

At this, Kuvira’s jaw nearly drops. “I don’t want to be like another band.” Frankly, she can’t fathom why he would even try to suggest trying to copy another band. 

 

“...And blend metal with an orchestra.” He presses on regardless of her dismissal. “It can be bombastic and powerful. I’ve always liked classical music.” 

 

“And I’ve always liked jazz.” Kuvira states flatly, she hopes that the argument sounds as ridiculous as it is. “This isn’t about what we  _ like _ , it’s about creating something new. Something that will change the industry. We need to leave an impression.” She gives that time to settle. “We can be the first band to try to blend metal and jazz, Baatar.” She takes a mouthful of tea. “The first.”

 

“Perhaps no one has done metal jazz because it doesn’t sound good.” 

 

Kuvira grips her cup a little tighter before setting it down with a force that splashes steaming liquid onto the table. She spares the man a final glance before turning her back on him and exiting. 

 

“You haven’t even asked the other three what they think!”

 

She doesn’t take the bait, however valid the point is. She is torn between to responses anyways; a prodding, ‘they’d agree with me’ and a kinder, ‘I want your okay first.’ She says nothing. 

 

“You always do this, Kuvira!”

 

She leaves that bait unbitten as well. 

 

“Why does it always have to be your way?” 

 

It is her band. 

It is her dream.

She bites her tongue. 

 

“Why are my ideas never good enough?”

 

**.oOo.**

 

Her bath does little to cleanse the kind of dirty she feels. The filth runs deeper than the water can penetrate. The steam of the springs curls around her body as she washes her hair. She has already scrubbed herself down several times but she still feels a phantom tingle where Zuko had run his fingers under her shirt. 

Somehow she feels violated, despite that he was the dreadfully reluctant one and she was insistent. 

 

She wonders, not for the first time, what is wrong with her. Wonders if her mind is fraying again, under the pressure of trying to keep them afloat. She runs the soap along her arms once more. The water pleasantly heats her skin and she tries to think only of how pleasant it is to have a soothing bath.

 

Her privacy is interrupted by footsteps. Before she can matter an inquisitive, ‘Mai, TyLee, is that one of you?’ a voice exclaims, “I know you!” 

 

But the woman doesn’t. 

She doesn’t know Azula at all. 

She knows the person The Blue Empress.

A perfectly crafted stage persona. 

 

“Do you?” Azula murmurs, she tries to be spiteful to the fan, but Agni was it vexing to have a private moment intruded upon. She curses, again, the lack of funding to go to a truly private bath house.

 

“Yes.” The woman nods. “I do. It is your fault that my daughter is out of control! You make her do things that she shouldn’t.”

 

“Oh?” Azula quirks an eyebrow, she hasn’t realized that she has gotten back into the business of manipulation. “And how did I manage such a thing?”

 

The woman snarls. “She cusses and sneaks around. Boys in the house every night, making a mess of it! She doesn’t listen to me…”

 

“That’s nice.” Azula replies smoothly. “But it isn’t what I asked.” 

 

The woman dodges the question again. “She was almost arrested for destruction of public property.”

 

Azula shrugs, destruction of public property is more work for her father, and that is fine with her. Her passive shrug is replaced by a somewhat satisfied smile. “What fascinating news, I suppose that it’s good to know that I still have an influence.”  

  
  


With a curt sniff the woman deflects, “I don’t know what I was expecting from a tramp who so freely shows everyone her chest.”

 

Azula sighs. “We are in a bath house, shall I bathe with my robes on?” She pauses. “Would you like to tell me how it’s my fault that you have no control over your daughter?” 

 

The woman looks at her as though she wasn’t about to say the most ridiculous thing Azula has heard in awhile. “It’s your music! You sing about destroying things and defying parental figures and she idolizes you and your sleazy brother.”

 

The words arouse something unpleasant within Azula. An unexpected desire to defend her brother, the very brother she had spoken ill of for most of her life. Perhaps it is because she knows that Zuko was just going along with her schemes. “I assure you, he isn’t…”

 

The woman cuts her off, splintering her patience that much more. “He is. All four of you are. What you do is the work of Raava, bidding children to rise against their parents..”

 

Azula decides that she has heard more than enough. With the raising of her temper, her voice lowers into a cold hiss. “I’ve found that children these days don’t ‘rise against’ their parents without good reason.” 

 

The woman’s lip twitches. “I don’t want to hear that from a deviant...a lunatic who has perversion for her own brother.” 

 

Azula swallows. The woman tosses her bathrobe aside and begins furiously scrubbing herself clean, if nothing else she respects the woman for not cowering away after delivering a low blow. Evidently, Azula wants to flee, but she won’t give the woman the satisfaction. She dips her head under the water to mask the tears that managed to escape. The woman is still raving at her from across the room, she can hear her, but only as background noise amid the doubts finally working their way in. 

The realization that she has probably made a mistake.

The realization that this isn’t something she can do damage control over, something that can’t be explained away by spinning a tale about too many drinks. 

 

They have the funding they need for their mover. But the woman has successfully left her feeling diriter than before she had entered her bath. The woman left her with the knowledge that people thought her a sexual deviant. She dries herself, trying to come up with a way to save herself.

Herself and Zuko from a lifetime of shame.

She squeezes the water out of her hair and bends to pick up her bathrobe.

 

“It’s a shame that you’re brother isn’t here to see this…” Azula’s face grows hot at the provokation. “...isn’t it?”

 

**.oOo.**

 

Baatar doesn’t speak with her for the better part of the night, apparently more than content to return her cold shoulder. So she tries something simpler. “Can you pass me some dessert?” 

 

Ming pushes Kuvira a plate.

 

“I was talking to Baatar.” 

 

“Oh wow, thank you Ming, you are such a good band mate.” She hears Ming mutter to herself, drawing a snicker from Ghazan. 

 

She has half the mind to tell Ming that she likes her better when she doesn’t talk. But she doesn’t want to fight on two fronts, possibly three if Ghazan chose to defend his woman. Kuvira shoots P’Li a look and the woman shrugs. 

 

“Baatar…”

 

The man pushes his chair in and bids his mother a good night. She knows that she shouldn’t press him but they truly don’t have time to keep an argument going so she follows him. “I don’t have a problem with your ideas--” 

 

He cuts in. “It’s just that yours are better, right?” 

 

Kuvira falters, “I never said that. I wouldn’t ever say that.”

 

“You don’t have to.” He says dryly. “I get the picture well enough.” 

 

She opens her mouth to speak but they have reached their bedroom and Baatar has slammed the door. Not many things throw her stoic demeanor but that does the job, it leaves her sputtering, “that’s...this is my room too. My pillows are…”

 

The door opens, but before she has a chance to smile, her pillows and blanket are flung into the hallway. She blinks at the closed door, standing there for a moment, before resigning herself to that she is going to have to sleep on the couch. 


	12. The Breaking Machine

“You didn’t sleep well, did you?” P’Li comments as Kuvira fixes herself breakfast. The woman makes no attempt to reply. She doesn’t need to, her overall demeanor is an answer in itself. She sits rigidly in her chair. Of course she hadn’t slept well, she never had been able to sleep well on a couch, it reminds her too much of the days she’d slept in the streets or on sofas and chairs she’d stolen from the driveways of people who were getting rid of them. 

Even without such poor associations her head had been racing all night, fretting over just how much time this impasse is going to cost them. She rakes her hand through her hair, why the fuck did he always do this at the worst times? Perhaps they should just stick to their usual style. 

But she knows that, that won’t cut it for S.A.S. They need something fresh. They need to put her idea to use. 

 

Just why the hell did he have to fight her on this one? 

Was he aware of how much pressure he has added? It is far more stress than necessary. They could be working on a new song and mover, they could be making progress. Instead, nights, spent on the sofa, have gone by. It is taking its toll and she is growing jittery and horrifically anxious. Perhaps downright fearful now that failure is waving itself in her face.

To think, they had come so far…

 

She rubs her hands over her face and peers at her engagement ring. Somehow it doesn’t seem to shine with as much luster. 

 

Part of her wants to just let it all out on poor P’Li. Instead she mutters, “he’s an asshole.”

 

“They’re all fuckin’ assholes. Why do ya think I don’t have one?”

 

“What about Zaheer?”

 

P’Li laughs. “Got me pregnant. Got himself locked up.” She sips her coffee and takes a good drag from her cigarette. “All fuckin’ assholes.”

 

Kuvira’s brows knit. “Why didn’t you mention that before? What happened to the baby?”

 

“Didn’t want it, so I got rid of it.” She pauses. “Didn’t mention it because…” she trails off as if deciding whether or not to speak her mind. “Because, someone didn’t want you. Didn’t know how you’d take it.” 

 

Kuvira balls her hands into a fist and squeezes. The woman always has been blunt, and normally she’d appreciate the forthright honesty. Today it is just another blow to her ego. Without a word she pushes her chair in and heads towards her room, all too aware that she has created another point of tension within Wrought Iron Machine. 

 

She gets to the door of her bedroom before realizing that it is Baatar’s room not hers. “Son of a bitch…” she hisses to herself and then once more before the door opens. 

 

“Kuvira.” Baatar remarks, looking every bit as unamused as she knew he would. 

 

“I need my clothes, Baatar.”

 

He steps to the side and watches her rummage through her closet...their closet. Her clothes are wedged between his, they hadn’t bothered to organize the space yet. Mostly because, prior to their argument she hadn’t been opposed to wearing something of his every now and again. A sadness wells up in her belly. She finds herself leaning against the wall with her forehead pressed up to it, gently banging the wall with the side of her clenched fist. Not enough to make a disturbance or even a sound, but just enough to release some of the pressure. A sound forces itself from her throat, not quite a sob nor cry, more so a sharp exhale. Her eyes grow watery. 

 

“Can you hurry up, I have to start my morning too you…” He trails off into a deep sigh and moves his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. For a moment she thinks that he is going to offer comfort. Instead he mutters, “Please get your clothes. We’ll talk about this later.” 

 

She feels numb, as she dresses herself.

The machine is breaking and she doesn’t have the skills to fix it. 


	13. A Sunset & A Song

They arrive on Ember Island at precisely noon, it is as Azula has planned. The sun beats down with the fury Azula enjoys. On a balmy breeze the scent of mango and pineapple is carried. From a smoothie stall wafts even more fruity fragrances. It is nice to be on Ember Island again, it is one of the few corners of the world left untouched by the rapid industrialization.  Not that they will have time to enjoy themselves. They are there only to shoot their video. Still, the change of scenery does her well and she hopes that a few hours under the island sun will but a tan on her skin. 

 

As she steps off of the ship, it still runs through her mind, the intrusion on her bath. It vexes her, she can’t afford to have her focus divided. But, since the encounter, she can’t put it out of her mind that people believe that she truly loves her brother. Somehow...there has to be some way of doing at least a little damage control. She pushes her mind to come up with something. 

Anything. 

 

She can kiss Mai or TyLee. But then she’d be a whore. She supposes that she doesn’t want to play with TyLee like that either, Agni forbid she returned the feelings. She can have Zuko flaunt his relationship with Mai more. But he already does that…

Oh Agni, did they think that he was some kind of slut?

 

Does it matter? Since when did it matter how others saw her? It did now that she had a career to think of and her sanity to keep. Where is a good plan when she needs it. She flops down onto a lawn chair, mulling it over as the camera crew set up. 

 

“Hey, Azula!” TyLee shouts cheerfully, “while they set up do you want to take a walk by the water?” 

 

Azula sighs, she doesn’t particularly want that, but TyLee’s eyes are so bright and sparkling that she can’t bring herself to say no. Perhaps a seaside breeze will help clear some of the stress whirring within her mind.

“It’s so nice to be back here.” TyLee declares. 

 

Azula shrugs. “I suppose that it is.” She watches TyLee dig around in the sand for shells. She pulls a teeny one out and hands it to the former princess. “Now just what am I supposed to do with this?”

 

“Hmmm…” TyLee hums. A delighted grin lights up her face and she sntaches the shell back. She scampers the beach for more of them and fashions her finds to the ends of Azula’s hair. “There you go! Very pretty.” 

 

“I’m not sure that they suit the aesthetic of our music mover, Ty.” 

 

“I can paint them black.” TyLee beams. 

 

Azula rolls her eyes, she supposes that it can’t hurt the mover too much to wear the silly shells, at least for the scenes that they are shooting on the beach and in the jungle. It is the least she can do for TyLee; the girl has been handling the scandals and the sometimes not quite savory sleeping conditions without even a ghost of a complaint. Of course she will take them out when they start filming on the rim of the volcano. They will undergo an entire costume change for that bit. 

 

She watches TyLee dive into the water. Azula sighs, hoping that the girl would not be sopping wet when it came time to shoot the video. Her friend beckons her to come into the water but Azula waves her off. As TyLee makes use of the ocean water, Azula’s mind wanders. 

 

She thinks that she knows how to approach the scandal. It is a risk, but if done right, they might be able to save some face. They will just have to weather an image twice as poor for a while. But it should work in the long run. Lately she hasn’t been thinking of the long term, it is what has gotten her into this mess and she chides herself for it in the same way she used to chide Zuko for it. For his impulsiveness. 

Now all she has to do is decide how to work her plan into an already thematically experimental album.

 

“They’re all set up, Azula.” Zuko interrupts her thoughts.

 

“TyLee!” Azula shouts. The girl looks up and comes bolting to the shore. “Dry off, we’re about to start.” She’d tell them of her plan after they finish shooting. She doesn’t want to raise tensions before the first shot nor between sets.

 

Dressed in full Sun Warrior attire they bring a sound Azula is certain no one has ever produced before. She has heard various types of folk and metal hybrids. But she doesn’t recall ever hearing a band try to combine tribal instruments with the metal scene. Especially a style of metal that is so wildly heavy. 

It will be the first of its kind. 

It will be memorable. 

 

They need to be memorable. 

And for something worth being remembered. 

 

Halfway through shooting on the beach, Azula finds herself thankful for the plethora of shells in her hair. The clicking of them when she tosses her head back, adds something to the performance. 

Somehow it feels more primitive. More in tune with the show she is trying to put on.

 

It is interesting to see TyLee working with tribal drums instead of her usual drum set. But the girl’s practice has paid off. She is as natural with them as Azula is with her fire--which she uses generously when they move from the beach to the jungle. 

 

Space is tighter between the trees and she has to look out for low hanging palm fronds when tossing her blue flames about. This is the first time she has truly used her firebending for entertainment purposes. Up until then she left the pyrotechs to Zuko, deciding that the warm hue of his flames suited their shows better. For the deep jungle part of the video though, she wanted a cooler mystical aura. The kind that her flames crafted well. 

 

Mai seems to have the easiest time, mostly her job is to headbang in the background, with a guitar in hand. Mai played the part of the silent shaman. Her guitar had a costume of its own; it would pose as her shaman’s staff. All Mai had to do was stand at the center of the circle of incense burners and play.  

 

**.oOo.**

 

As she had planned, they begin shooting on the volcano’s rim at sundown. And if she has things timed exactly right, they will finish when the sky is a deep indigo, not yet night but far from day. 

The volcano is billowing smoke, just active enough for the lava to churn and bubble below. But passive enough to allow for a safe shooting. It is the atmosphere she desires. As close to it as she can get anyhow, without running the risk of being roasted alive for her music mover. Agni knows how adamant Zuko had been about not needing anymore of his body and face charred. At least her brother is trying to make light of his own misfortunes, it is better than she can say for herself. 

 

TyLee does not join them on the rim of the volcano, its surface is too narrow, jagged, and bumpy for their drummer to be even remotely safe up there. Despite TyLee insisting that she is quick and balanced enough to be safe, Azula can’t say the same of the her equipment. They can’t afford new drums either, especially since she had TyLee’s set custom and handmade by Ember Island natives--more specifically the descendants of the original Sun Warriors.

It is the very reason for their tight music mover budget. Azula refuses to let that money burn away in a flare of hissing lava. 

 

So TyLee’s shots take place near the base of the volcano, where the rocks jut out with just enough space to form a ledge for her to safely play on. Azula will find a way to splice those clips in once their filming has been accomplished.

 

For the first time in a long while, Azula comes out satisfied with her performance. With all of their performances. Based upon the lively chatter of their camera and set crew, she’d say that they agreed. 

 

Pehpas if they had the funding they’d be drinking smoothies with a shot of fire whisky on the beach. The sky wears a full cloak of black and glowing silver by the time they arrive back on the beach. The tides are high and Azula can hear the native folk making their own steel drum music. 

 

“Can we check them out Azula?” TyLee asks batting those big brown-grey eyes. “Please.” 

 

Azula gives a soft sigh. “I suppose you all worked hard today...”

 

With a grin, TyLee is darting in the direction of the band before Azula can even finish. Mai takes Zuko’s hand as they follow along. Azula figures that it will be nice to watch a show instead of preform in it, even if the music isn’t quite her taste. They have worked hard and it will do her well to have this before she drops the news that they will be prolonging their stay to shoot another video on Ember Island. 


	14. The Machine Breaks

As it is, there isn’t much to talk about. She is controlling and pushy and that’s how it is, at least in his mind. “I just want to do something different. Something that will stand out.” She tries again. 

“And I don’t know if the kind of standing out you’re going for is the good kind.” Baatar admits. 

“It will be.” She insists. 

“Kuvira.” He pauses. “You know what? No. I have an idea and I’d like it to be used this time.”

He’s being stubborn and they have no time for it. “Baatar, we’re already behind schedule and we still have to order new instruments…”

“Don’t try to pull that on me.” Baatar says rather loudly, perhaps more forceful than he had intended. “If it means that much to you then we can compromise. You know, like I’ve been trying to do all morning.”

But Kuvira won’t budge, she already has an idea in her head. She already has the lyrics and the composition and a concept for the video. There is no room for compromise and no time. She vocalizes as much to her fiance. 

Her rational only seems to coax him into a deeper state of vexation and unwavering. He slaps both palms onto the table and heaves himself up with alarming speed. “Alright, I’ll put it to you this way. Either you work with me, or you can count me out.” 

Kuvira swallows, it is just the kind of ultimatum she had been dreading since the argument began. “Baatar!”

She watches him saunter off. She is going to kill the man for sure. How the hell can he put her in a position like this and at a time like this? With nowhere else to put her frustrations she begins combing her hair, forcefully, yanking strands of her own hair. She coils it into a tight braid and pins it up and then dresses herself for the day. 

“Is Baatar really leaving the band?” Ming asks.

“No.” Kuvira grumbles. 

“So you’re going to use his idea then?” P’Li asks.

“No.” Kuvira repeats herself. 

“The fuck are you gonna do then?” Ghazan questions. 

She doesn’t know. She hopes that Baatar will come around when he realizes that she isn’t budging. “Exactly what I want to do.” She replies at last. 

.oOo.

But he doesn’t come around.

They sit in Suyin’s garden, the sun is dipping lower and lower in the sky. She is already in a sour mood for having wasted yet another day. The both of them are quiet, sharing dinner but without discussion. Having enough of the silence Kuvira mutters something about the weather, how the breeze is nice and relaxing. 

Baatar mumbles a word or two of agreement and makes a casual remark about how the food isn’t bad either and then they fall quiet again. Kuvira cups her cheek in her hand and fixes her eyes on the soft pinks, oranges, and golds in the sky. 

“Have you made a decision yet?” 

Kuvira swallows. “I already planned everything out, Baatar.” She tries softly. “I can’t just go back now, we don’t have time to come up with new songs because we’ve wasted the entire planning stage.” 

She sees something work in his jaw. “You might as well just say it.”

“Saw what?”

“What you really mean.” Baatar replies. “You’re blaming me. It’s my fault that we’ve wasted time.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know you.” He shoots back. “I know that tone. It’s accusatory. You said, ‘we’ but you wanted to say, ‘you’.”

It stings because he isn’t wrong. 

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is.” Kuvira grumbles. “The point is, we don’t have time to make any new plans…”

Baatar gives a bitter laugh. “You think I’m an idiot don’t you?” He doesn’t leave her time to protest. “You think that I wasn’t smart enough to make a few plans of my own? I wrote a couple songs to go with my idea. I have a plan for the mover!”

Kuvira opens her mouth to speak. 

“But that’s impossible, right? I’m not as smart or prepared as you are. I was an engineer before joining your band. Planning is what I did. It’s what I do. And you never give me the chance to do it.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“Isn’t it?” Baatar takes a swig of his drink. “Because I can’t even name one suggestion I’ve made that you actually utilize.” He throws his hands up. “Hell, I can’t even think of one that you put in consideration into using.” 

“Okay.” Kuvira retreats. “We can use your idea…” she catches a premature smile cross his face. “...after Southern Air Sounds.”

Baatar slams his fist on the table and then runs his hand over his face, looking wholly exhausted. “Are you…? I can’t believe…” His sputtering lets her know that he has reached his limit with her. “I know what I need to know.” He concludes vaguely. 

Kuvira knows that he won’t be joining the rest of the band in the recording studio tomorrow. She came into their dinner expecting as much. But he still manages to surprise her. “You have me wondering what else I’m not going to have a say in.” She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t know what he is getting at. Or maybe she does because her belly is already fluttering with tickles of unease. “I’d like to have some say on my wedding day, I probably won’t get that with you, will I, Kuvira?”

For a moment her jaw goes slack and it is she who is stammering. “Baatar, that’s not...you don’t mean that.” 

“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t mean!” Baatar snaps. “I’m tired of you telling me what I am and what I’m not. How I feel and how I don’t.” He sets his engagement ring on the table before her with an audible clunk. 

“Baatar, don’t do this.” She mutters quietly. She is being abandoned again and somehow it cuts much deeper than the wound her own parents inflicted. She hadn’t known them as well as she has grown to know Baatar. 

“You can stay the night but tomorrow you and your band can pack your things.”

“Our band.” Kuvira tries softly. She is going to fall apart. 

“Your band.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been brought to you by Nightwish, Sirenia, and Xandria constantly switching their lead vocalists. :D


	15. Extinct

She hasn’t budgeted for a prolonged stay. A hotel would be nice, but as things are, with their tour bus left on the mainland, They are forced to have an unexpected little camping trip. Azula supposes that camping on the beach is the best scenario, but she still doesn’t care for it. She has never liked camping. But if it will aid her in saving her and Zuko’s dignity, she will do it. 

 

For what it’s worth, TyLee seems to be enjoying herself. For her, sunbathing has only turned into moonbathing. She lays at the spot where the dry sand meets the wet sand and the wet sand meets the ocean water. She dips her fingers into the water, looking for all the world as if nothing is out of place. As if their livelihoods aren’t at stake. 

As if they hadn’t thrown everything away for uncertainty. 

Azula is almost envious of the girl; how she is so carefree. This mess, it is just another adventure for her. One she embarks on with a smile that the other three can’t. 

 

Mai and Zuko remain in the tent, already getting a start on trying to sleep.

 

But Azula can’t sleep, nor can she enjoy the night and the dazzling tropical island sky. She has too much on her mind for sleep, even if she didn’t sleep won’t come to her without a bed. Just as much, her thoughts keep her from appreciating the view outside the tent in full. In turn, her sleeplessness leaves her just enough time to have second thoughts. To consider that her plan may only make things worse.

She buries her feet in the sand. 

 

She doesn’t notice when TyLee comes to sit next to her. “What’s wrong, Azula?”

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

“I’m not worried about  _ it _ . I’m worried about  _ you _ .”

 

Azula sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m just trying to keep things in check for Southern Air Sounds. We still have a lot to do.” Much to the former princess’ annoyance, the girl pats her on the head, twice and with the kind of friendly affection that only TyLee can display. 

 

“I don’t know why you’re worried, you do this all the time and it always works.”

 

“Maybe for regular tours…” but she has never had to somehow find a way to build a music mover, that would help clear a scandal she’d willfully started, around an album concept that didn’t quite fit it.  “but this is Southern Air Sounds.”

 

TyLee hugs her, nuzzling her cheek against Azula’s. “I know it’ll be perfect, your plans always are.”

 

But these days, Azula can’t agree. They aren’t as fool-proof. There are too many holes. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

The scene is set and the cameras are in place. 

Perhaps it is in poor taste. But then, they aren’t known for their respect. Frankly it was more in their nature, more befitting of their image to shoot in a genuine Sun Warrior temple. 

 

Even if the Sun Warriors have long since fled, perhaps even gone extinct it feels wrong. Wrong but they need this. She needs the security of knowing that she and Zuko will never have to rely on their father again.

 

“Do we really have to do this, Azula?” Zuko asks. 

 

“This one last thing and we won’t have to do anything like it again.” She is lying and she knows it. “They are going to have to continue the act a little longer. Perhaps for a few more performances. 

 

“Can’t we figure something else out?” 

 

“It’s the most solid plan I have.” Azula replies. “This tribal concept presents a perfect opportunity. Most people know the history of the Sun Warriors and the desperate things they’d done to preserve their race. And if they don’t, they can put some research in.” 

 

Zuko bites his lip. 

 

“It’ll be no different from anything else we’ve done. We simply have a story to base it around now.” Azula replies. “We just have to use it.”  She glances about the temple. One carefully placed song and mover telling the tale of two siblings, forced by their chief to help repopulate their dying kin...she hopes that, that will be enough to clear the air. 

 

If their story is strong enough she can come out with a claim that she had simply been trying to test the waters with their earlier performances. She has to omit some of the first songs she’d written for their tribal album to make room for their newfound storyline. She supposes that it doesn’t matter, their new concept is stronger in some regard. This will be the first time that they try to tell a story through an album. 

 

“Azula, this is a whole...a whole big thing, are you sure that one mover and song with that theme will work?” Zuko asks. 

 

She knows that it won’t. He doesn’t yet know it, but they will have to go all out, as far as they can without crossing too many lines. She doesn’t know if it is better to be forthright with him or deceitful as per-usual. So she settles for a half-truth. “We might have to do a few more things here and there to play up our story.” And something that isn’t a lie. Something that may even be closer to the truth. “We’ll see what needs to be done as we go along.”

 

She can see the reluctance in his eyes. “You’re going to have to pretend like this doesn’t bother you.” 

 

But she knows it bothers him because the hesitation works its way into the mover. It is just as well, she supposes that she can make claims about how it is his dramatic rendition of their characters’ hesitance rather than their own show of weakness. 

 

She tries her best to dull her mind as much as possible while she pushes Zuko against the wall of the temple. While she brushes her lips over his ears. She tries to work things out in her head, plan their next move. Plan how they will convey this on stage. It keeps her from contemplating the glimmer of unease, kicked up by running her fingers through Zuko’s hair  with a false passion as she half-sings, half-screams a lyric about her character already having a lover outside of the tribe. One that she can’t be with, lest she be cast out of what remained of the tribe. 

 

Hauntingly, it, in some way, reminds her of her true situation. 

She supposes that that’s what music is, an exaggerated extension of reality.

Perhaps that is what will make their act convincing. 

Perhaps it is the short-term abundance of unnerve that will lead them to endless comfort in the long-run.


	16. Rejecting Old Habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alt title: Brass before ass.

Pushing forward without Baatar leaves a dreadful tingling sensation in her chest and belly. Adding several new members to the band makes the feeling that much worse. As though she is replacing him. Perhaps she is, in some sense. The addition of brass to the band only seems to highlight the way she has driven Baatar out. She takes them through rehersal after rehearsal, until it becomes methodical. The band is still about two days behind and the stress of it is the only thing that keeps Kuvira from losing it completely. She dreads the moment when they catch up--at which point she will have nothing else to distract her from the overwhelming sense of loss. 

 

Her voice is soar, she has been neglecting her teas, she hasn’t had time for them. She hasn't had time to rest her voice either. Two days is a lot of wasted time. Those two days could put them out of the competition. 

 

“Start over.” Kuvira commands, sharply. They have to be perfect before they can start filming. But they won’t be, not truly so. 

Not without Baatar. 

For it she pushes them harder, as though it could compensate for that which is absent. 

 

She hears Ghazan groan. “Can we at least get lunch first?” 

 

“Lunch?” Ming mutters more to herself. “It’s almost dinner time.” 

 

“We don’t have--”

 

P’Li cuts in, “this is ridiculous, even for you, Kuvira.” She snaps. 

 

Kuvira isn’t sure which sign is more prominent; that Ming has bothered to speak up or that P’Li is actually agreeing with Ghazan for once. She rubs her hands over her face. “Fine, take a break.” 

 

“Thanks.” Ming mutters. 

 

Kuvira lifts a dismissive hand and beckons them away from her. “Just hurry up.” 

 

She hopes that they will, Raava forbid they leave her alone to think for too long. She dismisses her new brass players as well. Raava knew that she has given them quite a grand first impression. 

 

The recording studio is now empty save for her. She should probably fix herself something to eat, but she hasn’t had much of an appetite since Baatar departed. For a moment she contemplates withdrawing from Southern Air Sounds. Is it really Wrought Iron Machine without Baatar? Could they really perform without him. But she has chosen the band over him, she might as well get something out of her decision.

 

She finds the energy to leave the studio and wander into town. Her feet carry her to a tiny corner store. It is almost instinctive to grab a pack of cigarettes. There is no time like the present to pick up on old habits. She very desperately needs something to sedate her. 

She can practically hear Baatar scolding her for lighting up.

All the more reason to do it. 

 

But this time her body seems to reject the smoke. She gives a horse cough and flicks the cigarette to the ground. Perhaps it is for the best. 

 

She returns to the recording studio to find P’Li taking a drag of her own, no smoking signs be damned. Kuvira doesn’t pay her much attention as she scribbles down a rather hateful song about Baatar and another more melancholy, guilt riddled one. It does little to alleviate the fresh heartache. 

 

The rest of her band--minus Baatar--find their ways back into the studio. She takes her position at the microphone again and they practice until she feels as though they are ready for the video. 

But they aren’t ready. 

They won’t be ready.

How can they be ready without backing vocals from Baatar. 

 

She can ask Tarrlock to provide some guest vocals, but it won’t have the same effect and he’d go back to his own band as soon as she got used to him as a replacement. Perhaps Ghazan can provide. Kuvira pinched the bridge of her nose and frowned to herself. Who was she kidding, she can barely get the man to play his bass on most days, much less hand him a second job. 

 

Kuvira stares from the window of her newly rented loft. It has too close a view to Suyin’s estate. Her head aches with stress and she takes to massaging her temples, trying to work the pulsing away. 

 

It does absolutely nothing so she makes her way to her new bed and lays herself upon it, with one arm under her head and the other slung just beneath her chest. She doesn’t bother to unravel her braid, lest she cause her head more strife, by tugging at it. 

 

She yearns desperately for sleep but she knows that she will not get any for a plethora of reasons. Most of them stem from the scratching sensation crafted by pushing her vocal chords and throat too hard. Another good lot comes from the beating in her head. It is also hard to sleep with the nausea she attributes to nerves and some physical embodiment of having been abandoned again. 

It certainly doesn’t help to hear Ghazan and Ming enjoying themselves down the hall.

 

She is getting the sense that Ghazan would be more alert if Ming didn’t keep him up all night. The muffled moans from down the hall instill a tingling longing within her. Makes her miss Baatar that much more. Her mind escapes her and she thinks of times long gone by; more immature times where she and Baatar would get fed up with the noises above and go at it with twice the volume. P’Li’s poorly-rested face had been one for the scrapbooks.

But Baatar is no longer there to fill the bed with her. Ming cries out again and the tingling intensifies until she can no longer resist. She dips her hand beneath her waistband. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

Baatar paces about the room. Either he thought that Kuvira would pick him over her idea or didn’t think that he would actually go through with breaking things off with her. He reaches the far right of the room. It dawns on him that he had been almost certain that she would have chose him. 

But then, she is stubborn and proud. 

He wonders how proud she is now. 

 

He wonders how the band is getting on. He can’t help but assume that they are better off without him. Kuvira can freely put her ideas into action and they are probably working better than his idea ever would have. Why would they waste money on a full orchestra anyways? It had been a stupid idea and he doesn’t blame Kuvira for not liking it. All the same, he resents her for not even trying to meet him halfway. He reaches the leftmost side of the room again. 

 

Yet he misses her. He finds it bitter that they are finally home, that they finally had a decent amount of time to spend together and they have thrown it away. He heads for the right side of the room. Even so, he knows that he needed to put his foot down. 

Perhaps if he can shove his anger and hurt to the side he will strike up a second conversation with her. 

 

He thinks of the ring he had discarded. 

Had he been too harsh?

Did he have to break up with the band  _ and  _ her.

 

Baatar growls softly to himself, he needs to stop thinking about it. He has been thinking about it too much. Why was it that whenever he thinks he always second guesses himself? Is that why Kuvira always got the final say? He thinks that she has rather routinely taken advantage of his self-doubts. 

He is angry and hurt all over again. 

And he makes a decision. 

 

No, he won’t go crawling back to her this time. 

She will come to him. 

And she will do the apologizing. 


	17. A Songs Worth

They shoot their final music mover and then they are on their way back to the mainland. With luck, they would reach it by the premiere of their first video. Azula sits rigidly on the deck, arms folded over her chest. What if her plan doesn’t work? What if she has ruined their image beyond repair and is only making things worse?

 

“What’s wrong?” TyLee asks, she hovers over Azula with a bracelet made of seashells in hand. She holds it out to Azula and is about to speak. 

 

Azula does so first, “not now, TyLee.” She is surprised that the comment didn’t come out snappish. Regardless of the levelness of her tone, her mood is terribly prickly. “Go by Mai.” 

 

TyLee’s lower lip quivers and Azula sighs, she motions for her friend to have a seat. “Just...keep it down, alright?”

 

TyLee nods, pushing it when she quietly slips the bracelet around Azula’s wrist and gently pets the back of her hand before setting it back where it had been, in the former princess’ lap. A gust of salty air whips at Azula’s hair and leaves a bitter, tingling taste on her lips. She never has been fond of ocean spray. 

 

It takes another day to reach the mainland and TyLee fills it by recording bits of their journey on her mini camera. “It’s our tour diary!” She declares before having each of them make casual commentary about the boat ride. Azula tries her best not to look extraordinary grumpy in front of the camera, while Zuko is rather unapologetically cranky standing before it. Mai is as stoic as ever and TyLee as cheerful. What a group they are. 

 

At last their ship reaches the docks. There is already a decent crowd gathered. The bodyguards rise, albeit a little resentful at the breaking of their peaceful streak. Azula is going to miss the lax mannerisms of the Ember Island folk.

 

Azula rises, supposing that it is best to just tear away the bandages and get it over with. Stationed between two burly bodyguards, she makes her way the long ramp, doing her best to avoid the larger puddles that have gathered upon it. Zuko trails behind her followed by Mai and then a skipping and grinning TyLee.

 

“It’s good to be home!” The girl chirps. 

 

Azula wishes she could share the sentiment, but these days she doesn’t feel like she has a home. Even if they weren’t moving from place to place, she wouldn’t have a home. “I wanna lick your abs!” The shout tears her from her thoughts and, for the first time in a long while, she shoots Zuko a sympathetic look. His face is bunched up in a mixture of shock and disgust. The girl who had shouted it is red-faced and fanning herself as Zuko walks by. “I wanna lick abs too!” Calls another. Zuko’s face twists even further, only slackening when he realizes that the second shout hadn’t been for him. The boy is staring Azula down with just as much longing as the girl ogling Zuko. Azula suppresses a cringe, wishing that she had changed out of her swimwear. A few more remarks and stares, directed at each of them in turn, and they are back on their tour bus. 

 

Azula makes her way to the bathroom and dresses herself for the mainland. She sweeps a brush through her travel tousled locks and invites the rest of her bandmates to follow in suit. 

 

Her music mover is scheduled to premiere the next night. It will bring her one video closer to the risk she has taken. More than enough time for the doubt to creep in, in full. Agni, she should have just let things go instead of over-complicating them with an elaborate scheme. In time they would have forgotten about those kisses, had she given them time to do so. 

She peers out the window, the streets seem clear enough. She needs some air, to not be confined to the small space of a boat cabin or a tour bus. She finds herself a long cloak and a pair of sunglasses, trying her best to conceal herself before sneaking off of the bus, leaving behind only a note to say that she went out for a walk and that she’d be back within ten to fifteen minutes. 

 

It drives both Zuko and her management and bodyguard teams crazy when she ventures off on her own. But Agni be damned if she couldn’t take care of herself. The air is humid and tinged with a familiar dash of sulfur. She wanders rather aimlessly for a good five minutes before stopping at a food stall. She digs through her personal wallet for a moment, before realizing that she has on her, only the band’s funds. She makes a mental note to replace the cash when she gets back to the bus. Stick of roasted meat chunks in hand, she carries on with her walk. She might as well savor being in Fire Nation territory, while she can. In a few weeks she will be whisking she and her bandmates away to the Southern Air Temple. 

 

Azula finds herself a bench beneath a blossoming yoshino cherry tree and takes another chunk of meat, trying to think of the weather, the splendor of the tree she sits under, of the street performer with her handmade harp--of anything but the upcoming premiere of her her second music mover.

 

Just when her mind gets the better of her and starts flowing in the wrong direction a disheveled looking girl takes a seat next to her. She twiddles her thumbs nervously and brushes a sweep of bushy black curls out of her face. Azula isn’t sure if she is frustrated by or thankful for the intrusion. The girl is fidgeting with her fingers again, breathing rather sharply.

 

“Is there something you’d like to say?” Azula asks. 

 

The girl’s breath hitches. “I...well I. I um, well…”

 

Azula suppresses a judgmental sigh. 

 

“Your band helped me.”

 

_ Here we go _ , Azula thinks to herself. She readies herself for another breakup story and mildly detests herself for allowing Zuko enough creative control to write a handful of breakup songs. 

 

But instead the girl uncovers a wrist lined with slashes. “I thought that I was a failure for not having a good relationship with my mother.” Azula finds herself going tense. “I was gonna do it...ya know?” 

 

Azula gets her drift. 

 

“But then I was listening to ‘Departure’, and I decided not to.” She declares. 

 

It was one of their first songs, the one she and Zuko had co-written together, freshly banished and more helpless than she had ever been. It was the first time they had really done anything together that wasn’t bickering and competing. 

 

“So that song is really important to me.” The girl goes on. 

 

To she and Azula both. 

 

“I decided to start a band too!” She perks up. “But it’s a pop duo.”  She pauses. “Can I sing you one of the songs I wrote?”

 

Truthfully Azula isn’t particularly interested, but something in her softens so she tells the girl that she has time to hear one or two. Azula doesn’t think that she has ever seen someone beam so brightly. To Azula’s surprise the girl’s voice isn’t dreadful. In fact, she is rather soothing. The lyrics are too peppy for her taste, but the girl’s vocal range is rather impressive. She allows the girl a third song and a fourth--watching her delight grow--only cutting her off when she sees a very agitated bodyguard coming her way. “They don’t like me wandering off.” Azula shrugs in way of a goodbye.  

 

“It’s fine.” The girl says. “Congrats on S.A.S. Maybe one day I’ll get there too!” 

 

“Perhaps, yes.” Azula replies as she stands. “Probably.” She slips the girl the address of her record label. At the very least, the girl can have an album out, even if it isn’t the sort Azula would ever listen to. She supposes she can buy it for TyLee. 

 

“Thank you for listening to me.” 

 

Azula nods. 

 

The girl seems to hesitate for a moment before pulling out a twice folded piece of paper. She hands it to Azula. “I don’t need that anymore.” 

 

Azula peeks at her bodyguard who is growing ever more impatient. She knows that she is one mundane escapade away from the man demanding a raise.  

 

“Thank you so much!” The girl says again. 

 

“It’s no big deal. I know talent when I see it.”

 

“Thank you so much.” She repeats, tears welling in her eyes. She throws her arms around Azula, making her bodyguard that much more jittery. If for no other reason than to ease his stress, she awkwardly returns the gesture with a half-hug. “For saving my life.” She adds.

 

It isn’t until she is back on the tour bus, with the note read in full, that Azula realizes the weight of the girl’s thank you. The weight of her parting, ‘you save me’. Azula folds the letter back up, surprisingly thankful that she had been stressed enough to wander about. 


	18. An Itch

Their mover is quite simple in comparison to what they’ve done in the past. But it is just as well, she wants more focus to go into the instruments and into her vocals. They shoot at sundown, in the middle of a small desert. Kuvira will leave it to their effects team and the camera crew to make the desert look vaster than it is in reality. 

 

Truth be told she is quite shaken at the prospect of premiering the video. It will be the first that their fandom will know of Baatar’s departure. There will be questions, she knows this. She won’t know how to answer them because she likes to believe that Baatar will come back. 

 

It dawns upon her that they may just lose a hefty portion of their fanbase without Baatar. Just as a good chunk of them would leave if she did. She tries her best to put that out of her mind as she sings through their latest single. 

The sand whips at her hair and stings her eyes. If she opens her mouth at the wrong time she inhales some specks and begins coughing harshly. They have to begin again. She knows that her throat is going to be raw from the sand and the song. She looks forward to her cup of tea. 

She makes herself a promise to never film a music mover in the desert again. The blinding light gives her a headache and the heat has her stomach queasy. Perhaps she should call for a break. 

 

Kuvira finishes one final scene and calls for a brief resting period. It seems as though she isn’t the only one due for a break. Variations of the same relieved expression appear on the faces of her bandmates, both old and new. She wanders into the shade of the pavillion. She is far past due for a large glass of water. 

 

She takes a generous drink and sets the cup to the side. She rakes her fingers through her hair, it is thickly coated in sand, enough of it for it to get, agitatingly, under her fingernails. She isn’t particularly thrilled to go back to shooting the music mover. And is less thrilled at the prospect of having to come back out here to finish it tomorrow. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

Kuvira is drained and edgy by the time she reaches their loft. She hopes that Ming and Ghazan will keep it quiet, or at the very least that P’Li will blast her music over it. She hurries off of the tour bus, determined to claim the shower before everyone else. She needs to get the sand off of her skin. 

 

She gathers her sleepwear and steals herself away in the bathroom, trying not to think too much as the water warms. But she does think, she thinks about all of the ways their new music mover can go wrong. She thinks of how they are probably going to have to settle for only two videos due to lost time, nearly a month of the four that they had. 

 

She casts her clothes aside and sinks into the water. For a merciful moment, the task of getting the sand out of her hair steals all of her focus. She knows that it will just end up back in there, but it is just as well--she will have another thought free period. Though, as soon as her scalp is sand free, the thoughts creep right back in. 

 

She finds herself dialing Baatar’s number only to put the phone down after two rings. She is running out of time to have him back before Southern Air Sounds. She wonders if that is the only reason she wants him back.

The unrelenting heartache reminds her that it isn’t. 

That Southern Air Sounds is simply a way for her to push personal feelings to the side. 

 

She draws her legs up to her chest and props her head up against the wall. It is a method that doesn’t particularly work. She should sleep, but she can’t. She can’t because she can see the snide looks on her parent’s faces as they sneer and tell her that they knew this career choice wouldn’t work out. 

 

And it all comes back in full, the rejection and the pain. The feeling of her father's rough hands tugging her by the bend of her arm, out of the satomobile and shoving her forcefully to the pavement in an unfamiliar town, a two day drive away from her original home. Blindfolded to ensure that she wouldn’t be able to find her way back home. 

 

She recalls in full the cold and passive look on her mother’s face. The complete and utter lack of compassion. Perhaps she had looked a little distant as if trying to keep herself detached from the situation entirely. 

 

Kuvira tries to stir up that same sort of absence within herself. Maybe her mother’s genetics could do her well. She has done it in the past, it had gotten her by when she was just a child. It got her by a second time when she was in her teens and had a small spat with Suyin. She can be distant.

She can rebuild the walls Baatar broke through.

 

She doesn’t need crushing emotion, there is no room for that with so much to lose. 


	19. A Month Gone By

Azula slips herself into the hot springs. She exhales and stretches her legs out. It is nice to have the springs to herself. Nice to not have to dread an awkward conversation about the morality of her music or endure an overly enthusiastic fan offering her an uncomfortable amount of compliments. It is just she and a lovely perfume of jasmine and cherry blossom and a kind and curling steam. 

 

For the first time since she followed Zuko into banishment, Azula truly smiles. She feels truly at ease.Things are going well. Better than they have been in a while. Certainly better than things are going for Wrought Iron Machine--and that alone is cause for relief. They are one less band that she has to worry about, and the only band that Azula felt was ample competition. 

She almost wants to dig up the article again. The one that officially announced the departure of Baatar. For all of the times Azula fought with her own bandmates, at least she can say that she has never pushed them out completely. 

 

To think, the woman had been so snide and condescending when they had first come by each other. Masquerading about as if she had everything together. 

 

Azula plucks one of the petals from the water and rubs it between her fingers. How exquisitely wonderful it is to bathe in luxury again. Their music movers and a few extra concerts have put their funding in a much more stable condition. Overall, the past month has been kind, perhaps even generous with she and her band. 

 

The crowd has taken to their story surprisingly well. Of course there is still a healthy amount of outrage. How dare they portray such a disgusting concept? It is poisonous to the youth, or something of that sort. But at least they don’t think that she genuinely wants to bed her own brother. 

She supposes that she can deal with having to fake some more kisses with him to maintain their image and story. 

 

“Hi, Azula!” TyLee waves. 

 

Azula jolts at her unexpected guest. 

 

“You don’t mind if I join you?” 

 

Azula pats the spot next to her and TyLee gives a wide grin. “This bath smells so nice.” She mentions as she casts her garments to the side. 

 

Azula nods, “I suppose that it does.” 

 

TyLee sits down next to her and pecks her on the nose. Azula takes the girl’s hand, it is soft and delicate, and she gives it a small kiss. 

It is soothing and reassuring to kiss someone that isn’t her own brother. It leaves her feeling more secure. 

More normal. 

 

She lets TyLee sit in her lap and lathers her hair. Her fingers work through the looks with ease and TyLee gives a soft and loving little purr. How endearing, Azula thinks to herself. When she finishes shampooing TyLee’s hair, the girl turns to face her, her fingers brushing over the charred rose inked near her waist. Azula strokes the girl’s back. 

 

Indeed it is nice to be more intimate with someone other than Zuko. 

To be authentically intimate.

 

**.oOo.**

 

In the past month Kuvira had only one performance. She had planned a handful of them but couldn’t be bothered to go through with the rest of them. She had barely mustered enough enthusiasm to get through the first. She, during at least three songs on the setlist, had thought about ending the performance for the night.

She had lacked the energy.

Lacked the drive. 

Lacked everything a worthwhile performance needs.

She would rather put on no show at all than a half-assed one.

 

It doesn’t matter anyways, they had lost such a good portion of their fandom. Had gained a healthy helping of anti-fans. She finds herself almost buried in hateful letters, with former fans furious at her for pushing Baatar out of the band. Buried in letters accusing her of things that ranged from being a moody and unbearable bitch to outright being emotionally abusive and manipulative.

 

She rakes a hand through her hair as she comes across another one of those. She is beginning to think that they are correct. He hadn’t left for no reason. Her parents hadn’t abandoned her for no reason. Ming and Ghazan aren’t growing distant for no reason.

At this, Kuvira bites her cheek. She is going to lose them too. 

And she doesn’t have the willpower to talk things over with them. She fears what would come of it if she chose to do so. 

She is uncontrollably tempramental these days; swinging from one emotion to the next, ignoring the pleasant ones. 

 

She is furious and frustrated. Stressed and nervous. Nervous wondering  if it is possible to have her Southern Air Sounds invited revoked. Stressed and frustrated, knowing that she is about to lose everything that is important to her. 

But mostly Kuvira is sad. 

Sad that she has made the wrong decision. That she let Baatar go. Sad that she is letting her dreams slip away as well. 

 

She isn’t sure how much longer she can endure it. P’Li offers her a cigarette and she tries to take it. But once more, her body rejects it. This time even the odor off puts her. She coughs and wanders away from the table and onto the balcony for some fresh air. P’Li calls after her. But she might as well push her away too. 

 

Kuvira leans against the railing feeling dizzy and sick. 

She is making herself sick, she thinks. 

Dwelling so much on this mess is destroying her inside and out. 

 

She should call Baatar, but she doesn't want to bother him. She is sure that he won’t pick up anyhow. Instead she peers over the balcony at the ground below. A small gaggle of teens cluster in the yard, laughing and giggling. One wears a shirt bearing the Fire Of Agni logo. 

 

At least one band is doing well. 

She just hopes that their latest stunt doesn’t blow up in their faces. 

Raava forbid that the girl ended up like her. 


	20. The Decision

Whenever Azula finds herself in a more stable position, her father always seems to have this way of shattering it. Not that she hasn’t expected him to make an appearance at some point or another. She doesn’t know if it is she or Zuko who has spotted him first, but they exchange a look. One of both horror and fury. Their father had a lot of nerve showing up after telling them that they would die as dirty and gaunt street trash. 

Azula pretends like she hasn’t noticed her father smirking wickedly towards the middle of the crowd. She will have to pretend that he isn’t there at all if she and Zuko are going to stick to their regular show. 

She has a feeling that Ozai believes that she won’t go so far with him eyeing her. She screams out a final note, the one that the fandom has described as pained and haunting. The one that always tears from her throat before she grabs Zuko with a false-roughness and presses her lips to his with a vicious depiction of resentment. 

 

It is nothing like their ‘practice’ passionate kisses and as she takes Zuko, she hopes that it will put a crawling under her father’s skin. For good measure, Azula shoves Zuko up against the nearest pillar, this time drawing out the kiss. To her surprise, Zuko returns the gesture with just as much ferocity. She can’t tell if he is angry and trying let her know or if he wants to make Ozai seeth as much as she does. 

 

She draws back, panting softly before picking up her microphone and proceeding with the next song. Her head is dizzy, wondering if she has taken things too far again, but the cheers tell her that she has not. Even so…

She scans the crowd, Ozai is scowling. 

Any doubt that she has crossed a line, fades into the background for the time being. 

 

Security is doubled is they make their exit. Her management advises that she cancel her meet and greet. But she can’t afford to hand everyone a sum of money back and, just as much, she can’t afford a second round of outrage. Instead they move the location of their meet and greet to their tour bus. It is guarded much more intensely, fans only allowed in, in groups of two or three. Yet Ozai never makes his appearance. It leaves Azula more antsy than it would have if he were to create a scene. 

She finds it hard to keep herself fully present during the meet and greet. The only time her attention isn’t divided is when a familiar face comes into view. 

 

It is almost enough for Azula to forget about Ozai to see the girl again. With a grin she introduces Azula to her little sister. “She’s going to be in my band.” The girl declares. “Though we’re probably not going to put on the same kind of show you and your brother do.” 

 

“I don’t recommend it.” Azula shrugs. 

 

“Then why are you doing it?”

 

The question takes her aback. “It’s an attention getter, I suppose.” The former princess confesses. “Though, I don’t think that it will hurt to...educate the public. Not many people cared to learn about the Sun Warriors until this album.”

 

“You like history?” The girl asks. 

 

“Naturally.” Azula replies. She has probably gone way over time with this girl, Mai is staring at her with a hint of impatience. “I suppose I should wrap things up.” Azula scrawls her number on a scrap of paper and pushes it towards the girl. “We can finish this conversation some other time.”  

 

The girl nods. “I’m Quoa, by the way.” 

 

It is well to have a name to go with the face.

 

**.oOo.**

 

Another month has slipped away and they only have one more music mover to show for it. Kuvira is well past caring though. She is growing as careless as Ghazan. Their new sound isn’t what she had expected it to be. It isn’t as bombastic as she had hoped nor as grand. 

Baatar had always known how to compose the instrumental portion of their songs…

 

Because her idea has had a lackluster outcome, their music videos leave a lot to be desired. Considering the circumstances she has given it her all. But she can’t bring herself to care. She supposes that her parents were right, she isn’t going to make it. She was never supposed to. She has had her moment in the spotlight and it is over. 

Perhaps she can join a dance team. That would suit her well enough. 

 

“Have you seen this!?” P’Li hollars from the other room. 

 

“That’s some bullshit.” Ghazan grumbles. She notes his pause, probably to take a swig of booze. “They don’t know shit.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re surprised, it’s the same stuff as usual.” Ming mumbles. 

 

“Our video wasn’t disappointing.” P’Li states. There is a rustle of paper and Kuvira knows that she has thrown the magazine. 

 

Kuvira doesn’t understand her outrage, the articles weren’t lies. They speculated about how the band is getting lazy, about how their experiment was a tragic failure, and mostly about how Baatar was clearly the brains behind the group. The only thing holding them up. 

 

For the most part, Kuvira agrees. She only finds it in her to be angry that they were so grossly underestimating the work she has put into the band, how much she has contributed. She imagines that Baatar is probably pretty smug reading those articles. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

“You didn’t have to go that far!” TyLee protests, tears dot the corners of her eyes. 

 

“It’s just a performance.” Azula insists. “You know that, Ty.” She tries to reach out, but TyLee backs away.

 

“You didn’t have to go that far.” She repeats in a mumble. 

 

Azula wonders if Zuko is getting a similar lecture from Mai. She thinks not, it is more Mai’s style to entirely cold shoulder him. “I was just trying to get my dad to leave.”

 

“Sort of like you were  _ just trying _ to get some extra money for us.” TyLee rebuffs with a dangerous edge. She is teetering on the edge of implying that Azula is whoring herself out to her brother.

 

Azula keeps her lips pointedly locked, lest she remind TyLee that she has the highest count of fans under the sheets with her. “I do what needs to be done.” She hisses when TyLee doesn’t say anything else. She is the only one who seems to care what happens with the band. “Maybe you should try it some time.” 

 

TyLee’s lower lip trembles. The girl has brought it on herself though, she shouldn’t start fights she doesn’t have the capacity to finish. Azula tosses her jacket onto the bed and goes onto the balcony for some fresh air, thanking Agni that they have a hotel tonight. 

 

She isn’t alone, Zuko sits on the floor propped up against the banister, sulking with a drink in hand and his hoodie drawn up. It is all the confirmation that Azula needs to know that Mai is giving him as big a hassle as TyLee is giving her, maybe more of one. 

 

“Rough night?”

 

“We started our night with father...of course it’s a shitty one.” He snaps. 

 

Azula rolls her eyes, his outbursts are something she is used to by now. She pulls up a chair and sits. “I don’t suppose Mai made it any better.”

 

He scoffs. 

 

“If it makes you feel any better, TyLee is being difficult too.”  He doesn’t even look up from his drink. “They’ll come around.” Azula notes.  

 

**.oOo.**

 

Her nights get much worse as the days wear on. A few articles later and she decides that perhaps Baatar had done most of the work afterall. That he is the only reason that they have made it as far as they did. 

 

Maybe it is for the best that she is fading out of the spotlight. She rolls from her side to her back and stares at the ceiling with one hand on her belly. She won’t have time for touring soon anyways. Not without help. 

Help that she no longer has. 

 

Kuvira knows that she should call Baatar. Should let him know. But Raava forbid she gives the fandom more grounds to accuse her of being manipulative and abusive. Raava forbid, the tabloids find out about her condition at all. She has only barely managed to cover it up in the videos.

 

General public aside, Kuvira can’t bring herself to call her ex-fiance. He would see it as a desperate ploy to get him back. She absently taps her fingers on her belly, trying to decide what to do about it. About all of it.

About the band.    
About Southern Air Sounds. 

About Baatar. 

About the baby. 

 

She knows she will have to choose between the music and her child. 

She knows that she won’t turn her back on the baby, won’t let it suffer that special brand of torment she does. 

She supposes that the decision isn’t that difficult. 

 

Kuvira hates to put P’Li, Ming, and Ghazan in a tricky position. Truly she does, but they can take care of themselves. She can’t see herself being able to perform well enough to get anywhere anyways. Still, she isn’t sure how she is going to tell them that they are withdrawing from Southern Air Sounds.


	21. The Call

Azula and Zuko haven’t heard from or seen their father since the show. It is no comfort for Azula who is waiting for something to happen. A death threat, a thrown fireball, anything. But the man doesn’t show. It leaves Zuko twice as jittery, he frequently mentions his scar itching--some sort of phantom sensation that seems to arise whenever he is anxious. 

 

Eventually TyLee’s need to be comforting overpowers her need to hold a grudge. She sits herself down next to Azula who only briefly glances up. Tylee doesn’t speak and simply ties a pink ribbon into Azula’s hair. She doesn’t fancy the color but she accepts her girlfriend’s gesture anyhow. TyLee braids the former princess’ hair and kisses the top of her head. 

 

“What do you think he wants?” Zuko’s booing voice spoils the peace. 

 

“To fuck with us, what do you think?” Azula asks. 

 

“I think that he finally saw our videos and…”

 

“And what?” Azula questions. “Do you still pine for his approval, because I don’t.” Maybe if she says it enough, she will believe it. 

 

“What do you think he’s going to do?”

 

Azula shrugs. She supposes that if they stick to the Earth Kingdom that he can do nothing, it is out of his rule. But they are in the Fire Nation. Perhaps his worry isn’t unfounded. Just like that she finds it curious that they are permitted to perform in the Fire Nation. She wonders what his game is. Perhaps it is fame alone that leaves them untouchable; the notion that his reputation would be in tatters if harm came to she or Zuko by his hand. That there would be outcry if they were banned from performing. He can’t afford such in a day and age in which electing rulers seemed to be becoming commonplace.

She hopes that such a breed of paranoia will keep him at bay. 

Agni forbid she and Zuko have to fight the man. She can’t imagine that a spat between royal family members--in exhil or not--would go over well with the public. 

 

Intimidation, it must be. 

She hopes so. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

Kuvira paces around the bedroom she shares with P’Li. The woman in question had wandered onto the balcony for a smoke. Thank Raava, the woman would surely be annoyed by Kuvira’s relentless unrest. Back and forth she walks with her thoughts, but she can’t escape them.

 

She isn’t sure which news to break first. Her hand absently makes its way to her slight baby bump. She thinks that it might be easier to announce the baby first, to explain why she is withdrawing from Southern Air Sounds.  But then, it isn’t any of their business is it, that she is going to be a mother. She may as well just let them assume that Baatar’s departure is the cause of the withdrawl. 

It isn’t a full blown lie. It isn’t a lie at all. It is simply a fraction of the whole truth.

Kuvira hears the door slam, and she gives a start. “Raava, do you have to slam it!?” She snaps, with a reeling sensation she notes that she sounds like her mother. It is almost enough to bring tears to her eyes. Raava forbid she treats her child as her mother treated her. She rubs at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

 

“Sorry.” P’Li mumbles half-sarcastically and half-genuinely. 

 

She reeks of smoke and Kuvira feels almost dizzy with the scent. Much to the annoyance of the woman who has just entered, Kuvira continues her restless pacing. She only brings herself to a halt when P’Li physically obstructs her path. “The fuck is going on with you?” P’Li grumbles. 

 

“I think that you already know.” 

 

P’Li grabs her by the shoulders and forces her into a chair. “Talk.” 

 

Kuvira crosses her arms, determined to hold the type of silence usually upheld by Ming. 

 

“Talk.” P’Li repeats. 

 

She wants to. She really does. “Baatar quit.”

 

“And…”

 

“So do I.” She replied quietly. 

 

“Quit what? Your own fuckin’ band? Southern Air Sounds?” Now P’Li has her arms folded over her chest as well.

 

“Both.”

 

“Why?” P’Li demands. 

 

“I have other things to take care of.” Kuvira replies flatly. P’Li stares at her and she knows that the firebender wants some elaboration. Kuvira crosses one leg over the other and stares at the hands she has positioned on her knee. 

 

“Fine.” P’Li shrugs, she turns around.

 

“Wait!” Kuvira isn’t yet ready to elaborate though. But it is enough to keep P’Li from leaving. The woman pulls up another chair. She supposes that if there’s anyone she can speak with it is P’Li. Kuvira shifts in her chair.

 

“What other things do you have to take care of?”

 

For an answer she simply moves her hand from her knee to her belly.

 

“Does Baatar know?”

“No.” She replies. “I don’t know if he should.”

 

“He should.” P’Li states. She leaves no room for protest. “And you’re not withdrawing from the contest.”

 

“That’s not up to you.” 

 

“I need this.” P’Li pushes. “This band is everything. If you just throw it away, what are the other two and I supposed to do?” She pauses. “You need Southern Air Sounds.”

 

Kuvira rubs at her temples, she doesn’t appreciate the demands. “I need to be able to take care of a child.”

 

“Which is why you’re going to win the prize money and the fame to be able to.” P’Li insists. 

 

Those are pretty words, but she doesn’t quite believe them. It will be a waste of time and energy to perform without their original lineup. She has already set the band up to fall. “There’s no point, P’Li.” 

 

“I just told you what the point is.” 

 

“I have to put the baby first.” 

 

“And you can do that by attending S.A.S.” They are going in circles.

 

Kuvira has been holding so much inside and it finally pushes its way out. “Of course you would think that. You didn’t think twice before putting your baby down.” She says with a poison.

 

Pure rage flickers on P’Li’s face for an instant before her expression goes blank. “Fuck you.” She stands with a force that knocks the chair to the ground. With the slam of a door, Kuvira knows that she has pushed out the last of her allies. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

Azula still wears the ribbon that TyLee braided into her hair while she is on stage. It doesn’t exactly fit the aesthetic but Zuko and Mai had begged her for a less intense performance. The clashing ribbon reminds her that they are taking it easy tonight.

As easy Azula can take a performance anyways.

 

It is going mostly well. They have opted out of kissing on stage this time, not overdoing it is the key. Another scream tears from her throat, vicious and powerful. The sort that will bring Fire Of Agni their reward. 

 

She looks up and spots him again. 

Ozai stares at she and Zuko. 

This time Zuko doesn’t see him.

She will let him have his cozy ignorance.

 

Azula tries to dwell only on the music. It is surprisingly easy to forget about her father when her voice strains and falters. It is the first time she has struggled to get a verse out. Perhaps she has been doing too many shows after all. Her face flushes and she hopes that the blunder has gone unnoticed. 

She tries to push through, all the while her throat begs for mercy. Dread settles in and she tries to cast it aside. This has happened before, all it takes is a steaming cup of tea to make it right. 

 

The song doesn’t finish soon enough, but when it does she speaks, “we’re going to change things up a little.” She mostly says it to address her bandmates. “Since we’ve taken a break from the theatrics, we’re going to perform a song we don’t usually sing live.”  She has learned this time around and has left herself a collection of ballads with smoother vocals as well as a remake of an older song where both she and Zuko sing with clean vocals. The announcement is well-received. She waits for the applause to die down before starting the song. 

 

Her throat is pulsing by the time she finishes the show and they still have to stick around for autographs. Again security is tighter than usual. Their presence alone seems to speed this little meet and greet up. 

 

It isn’t until she and Zuko are finally getting comfortable that Ozai makes his appearance. Her bodyguards edge closer. “What do you want?” She asks in a dangerously low tone. 

 

“I’m just here to witness the failure. That is all.” He replies. 

 

So intimidation it is. 

 

“I’d like to see the exact moment when you realize that you need me. I’d like to be there to see the precise minute when you realize that you’ve made a mistake following your brother…”

 

Zuko goes rigid beside her.

 

“He is a lost cause, but you? You can make something of yourself. Something worthwhile.” He reaches a hand out but her body guards come to stand in front of her. “Honestly.” He chuckles. “Have you really resorted to having others fight your battles?”

 

“This isn’t a battle.” The remark is just as much for him as it is for her body gurads who step back. 

 

Ozai’s hands are back at his sides. “Not at all.” He agrees. “It is an invitation, come back home and we’ll pretend like this mess has never happened.”

 

Azula swallows. Isn’t that what she wants, normalcy? Stability? She can have it. She can hand Fire Of Agni to Zuko and have her father’s love and respect back. TyLee curls her fingers around Azula’s hand. “What about TyLee and Mai?”

 

“They are free to come home with you.” Ozai’s lip curves up. A vicious sort of curl. “Of course you can stay here and I’ll be in the crowd watching you fall with your leech of a brother.” 

 

TyLee squeezes her hand harder and Zuko looks devastated. Devastated and betrayed and she hasn’t even made a decision. She thinks of the girl who she slipped her number to, the very same girl who had almost killed herself. She thinks of how many other people put such faith in their music. She has come this far… “that is fine father, I would like you to see our victory.” 

 

**.oOo.**

 

The pen quivers in Kuvira’s hand as she tries to come up with an adequate way to word her resignation letter. She thinks that perhaps it is selfish. But it is the most selfless, selfish thing she has ever done. She doesn’t like to sacrifice her bandmates at the expanse of her baby, but they can take care of themselves. Her child-to-be can’t. Still, it is hard to come up with anything to write when her head is so full of other things.

 

She runs a hand through her tangled locks. Strands of hair tumble into her tired eyes. She has tried to resume conversation with P’Li but the woman is unshakably pissed and it seemed as though she has poisoned the opinions of Ghazan and Ming. She supposes that the venom isn’t unjustified. 

Still she can’t fathom why they are still lurking in her loft. The one she is paying for on her own. She doesn’t have the fight or the heart to throw them out. 

 

Kuvira sets the pen down and curls herself up on her bed. She feels sick and sorrowful. Everything is falling apart and she knows for sure that it had, in fact, been Baatar who kept the band in good trajectory. She may have started the band but it is his. 

 

She reaches a solution, one that can satisfy everyone. She forces herself out of the bed and into the living room. 

 

“You finally going to tell us that we’re withdrawing from Southern Air…” Ghazan starts. 

 

It takes a degree of willpower to tell him that he had been too lazy to do anything more than halfway before the possibility of withdrawal. Instead she says, Yes, that’s what I am here to talk to you about.”

 

Ming glowers at her, shaping a pair of watery arms just so that she can fold them over her chest in disappointment. 

 

“I’m turning the rights to the band over to Baatar. You all can carry on and I’ll take care of my...of what I need to take care of.”  Kuvira says with as much stoicism as she can muster. A month will leave them with ample time to adjust. She can’t imagine that the fandom will miss her too much, they seem to vastly prefer Baatar. “I’ll discuss the matter with him.” Like P’Li, she leaves no room for objection nor further discussion in general. She can’t keep her composure long enough to do so. 

 

As soon as she reaches her room and locks the door she slides down to the floor and releases much of the pent up tension. Her cries are as quiet as she can make them and rather breathy. She crawls her way to the phone and picks it up. She dials Baatar’s number and fights to level her voice before the man picks up. 

 

She almost has herself moderately compoused when his greeting comes through. She takes an extra second as he repeats his hello twice. Quickly, before he can hang up, she returns the greeting. 

 

“Kuvira?” He asks, she can’t assess his tone.  

 

“Yes, it’s me.” She confirms. 

 

“What do you want?” This, she can tell, is annoyance. 

 

“I wanted to…” She trails off. “I’m going to sign the band over to you. I can’t go to Southern Air Sounds but the other three, they need it.” 

 

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Baatar questions. 

 

“I just…” she pulls the phone away from her mouth as she chokes up. “I just can’t do it right now.” She can’t keep her voice from cracking as she adds, “I have other things to take care of.” 

 

He doesn’t miss the hitch in her voice. “Are you alright?” 

 

“Fine.” She tries, her voice cracking again. She sets the phone to the side again and chokes out another sob accented with a soft sniffle. She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hands. She picks up the phone again and says with more clarity, “I’m fine.” 

 

It isn’t enough clarity to keep him from asking, “are you crying?” 

 

“No.” Almost involuntarily she lets a cry escape her parted lips. The tears slip down her cheeks and drip off of her chin. 

 

“You’re crying.” 

 

“No.”  She slams the phone on the receiver only to hear it ringing. She brings her pointer and thumb to her forehead and lets it ring as the cries overtake her in full. The phone doesn’t stop its incessant ringing and finally she picks it up. “Leave me alone!” She is about to slam it down when she hears him ask, “am I going to have to come over there?”  

 

“No.”

But she wants him to so badly. She misses having him cuddle up in her arms. She misses the closeness. 

 

She hangs up again. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

Zuko is still staring at her has their tour bus departs. They are all staring at her, really. But Zuko stares the most intensely  and the most slack jawed. It is enough to make her forget about her aching throat. Finally she has enough, “what?” She hisses, her voice still strained. 

 

“Y-you chose me?” 

 

Azula rolls her eyes. “I absolutely did not.” She doesn’t think that she has convinced anyone. “I chose my dignity and independence.” 

 

“And Zuko!” TyLee throws her hands up in excitement. “You chose us.” She tosses said hands around Azula and nuzzled her cheek against the firebender’s. 

 

“Stop it, Ty.” Azula grumbles. But TyLee does not cease her fluff and cuddles. 

 

“She chose us, Mai.” 

 

Mai mirrors Azula’s eye roll, a faint hint of amusement tugging her lip upwards at her band mate’s current TyLee induced predicament. 

 

“Will you let go if I say that I chose you guys?” Azula’s voice comes out distorted by the way TyLee’s face was smushing against hers. TyLee nods and Azula caves. “Alright, I chose Zuko and Mai.”

 

“And TyLee!?” TyLee beams. 

 

“Nope, just Zuko and Mai.”

 

“Hey!” TyLee pouts and softly thumps Azula’s shoulder. 

 

Azula gives a soft snicker. 

 

“His face was priceless.” Zuko comments, allowing for her snicker to become less soft. “I hope that it ends up in the papers.” 

 

“Let’s just make sure we win in front of him.”

 

**.oOo.**

 

He finds Kuvira curled up in a corner. Her hair is a mess and her cloths are disheveled. He sweeps his fingers through his hair. He knew that she was crying on the phone but he didn’t expect her to be such a mess. Getting closer only reveals more signs of distress. Her eyes are dull and accented with light bags. She hasn’t bothered to change out of her pajamas. He hopes that she has only been wearing them for a day or two. 

 

He doesn’t know how to open the conversation, he knows exactly what’s wrong and he knows why she didn’t call sooner. With nothing else to say he opens with those questions anyways. He doesn’t expect her to tell him that she didn’t want to bother him. 

 

He knows it would be a lie to tell her that it wouldn’t have bothered him. He picks his words carefully. “It wouldn’t have bothered me if you told me you were upset.” 

 

“I’m not upset.” She insists. “I’m angry.” 

 

He rolls his eyes and nearly sighs. “I think that you confuse anger and sadness.” He knows that she does, he also knows that she cries when she’s angry. But he has learned to differentiate between the rage crying and the mournful ones. 

 

He stoops down and carries her onto her bed. She is some heavier than he recalls. He brushes her hair behind her ears. “Talk to me.” He says taking her hand. He is treading in dangerous waters. If he isn’t careful…

He groans to himself because he already knows that he is being pulled back. She hasn’t even tried to guilt trip him and he is being pulled back. Perhaps her lack of guilting is precisely why he isn’t trying to resist.

 

But of course she isn’t trying for a guilt trip, because she isn’t trying for anything save for, maybe, slowing her tears. Other than that, she is silent. “Tell me what’s going on he tries again.” Cupping his hand over the one she has positioned on her belly seems to somehow open the floodgates. Her weeping becomes that much more intense and is intermingled with babbled words he can’t make out. He lets her ramble like that, simply stroking her hand until she finishes. 

 

He feels awkward in asking her to repeat herself with more clarity. 

 

With a whispered, ‘fuck’, she wipes her eyes with the hand he isn’t holding. “I can’t do this Baatar.” Is all she says. 

 

He realizes that they have an audience now. Ming and Ghazan peer into the room. They exchange concerned glances. They only leave when P’Li scowls, nudges them both, and scolds them for peeping. 

 

“What can’t you do?”

 

“Anything.”

 

“Can you be less vague?”

 

“I can’t go to Southern Air Sounds. I can’t manage the band on my own...I can’t manage it at all.” He opens his mouth to speak but Kuvira continues first. “My idea didn’t even work…” She mumbles something else. Something that had probably degraded her idea. 

 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not true.”

 

“If it’s not true then why have these new songs gotten less views than the first ones did when they first came out?” Kuvira asks. “Lately we’ve only received negative reception.”

 

“Your idea wasn’t dumb.” He insists. 

 

“Prove it!” She demands. 

 

He pushes out another sigh. “They’re just not used to me not being there. It doesn’t have anything to do with your idea.” 

 

His words only help until she comes to another conclusion. “They don’t like me.”

 

“T-that’s not true.” He stammers. 

 

“You don’t like me.” 

 

“Also not true.” He sputters with more intensity. He lifts her into his arms and props her head up against his shoulder. “I’m just...you’re frustrating sometimes. You always have to have it your way and…” He knows that now isn’t the time to make accusations. He tries to backpedal. “And my ideas have always been shot down, ever since I was a kid. I’m not the most confident person.” 

 

Her crying seems to slow but she her words remain dismal. “You left me. Everyone leaves me.”

 

“I didn’t…” He stops himself because he did. He had left her.

 

“My parents, you, P’Li…” 

 

A light bang tells Baatar that P’Li hasn’t left. He steals a glance at the doorway where P’Li has her head pressed against the wall in exasperation, Ming and Gazahn snickering. 

 

“I assure you, P’Li is still very much here.” He tries to make light of things. 

 

Kuvria tosses a pillow at the door, with it fully shut again she metalbends the lock in place, ignoring Gazhan’s protests. 

 

“I’m still here.”

 

“You’re going to leave again.” Part of him thinks that he should. But he can’t imagine doing so when she looks so fragile. 

 

“I can’t leave.” He forces a smile. “We have a lot to catch up on.” 

 

She doesn’t speak. 

 

“You have to decide which verses of the new songs I get to sing. And I think that we have time to remake at least one music mover before Southern Air Sounds.” 

 

“It’ll be an awful, half-assed video.” 

 

“Then we’ll just have to rely on my sex appeal.” He wriggles his brows. “Apparently the fandom loves me.”

 

Kuvira looks anything but amused. 

 

“We’ll figure something out. Something that we both like?”

 

Kuvira wipes her eyes a final time and sits herself upright. She gives a firm nod before opening her notebook. 

 

“You just get right to it, don’t you?” He allows her to distract herself, deciding that he will get better conversation with her when she relaxes more or less in full. 

 

“You’re not leaving?” She asks again. 

 

“I’m not leaving.” He confirms, giving her ear a kiss. “I shouldn’t have left the first time.” He hopes that she will have a good apology for him. He supposes that she has already admitted that she was wrong. He won’t push for an apology yet. 

 

Some of the tension leaves her body, as though he has taken some sort of unseen weight off of her. “Good, because I need you.” 

 

“Yeah the band isn’t quite the same…” he tries to joke.

 

“ _ I _ need you.”

 

He supposes that, that is better than an apology. Much better. “How about we write a song and plan a video together. We can talk more after that.”  He thinks that it will help to build up some cooperation and compromising before diving into personal matters that will require a whole lot of that. She nods in agreement, a good sign. 


	22. The Worth Of A Week

They are two weeks into the final month before Southern Air Sounds and Azula’s voice is still dreadfully hoarse and she knows that she is pushing herself. Still, she can’t cancel the show, it will only prove to Ozai that he is right, that she doesn’t have what it takes. She can’t imagine that her struggles are going unnoticed; for her last few shows she has done more of their cleaner songs. And for this one she is switching roles with Zuko entirely. Even this is hurting her sensitive throat. She finds it hard to hit and to hold notes. Still she keeps going, if there is one thing her father has done well for her, it is teaching her to carry on until the fight completely leaves her body...and then to push on regardless until the fight leaves her spirit too. 

 

The man isn’t the crowd this time around and she thanks Agni for that. She knows that he can tell when she is having a hard time. She knows that he likes to exploit it almost as much as the tabloids do. 

Such news outlets have already taken to addressing certain speculations. They have range from more optimistic theories; that Fire Of Agni is experimenting again, that they will be making an album where Zuko does the screaming and Azula takes the more elegant parts. To dismal ones that touch on the truth; that there is something wrong with Azula. More specifically that something is wrong with her voice. There are even more miserable theories that her voice has already been damaged beyond repair and that she is simply singing until she physically can no more.

 

She wishes that they would stop the speculation and just see how things unfold. 

 

With every difficult note, Azula knows that her voice is deteriorating a little more. She doesn’t want to skip the encore, but when she places her microphone into its stand, she knows that she won’t be picking it up again to night. 

 

Azula speaks to TyLee if for no other reason than to tester her own vocal strength. There is hardly any power in her words as she asks TyLee if she can sing her parts in the encore song.

 

TyLee gives a nervous nod and Azula can’t tell if it is attributed to concern for her girlfriend or stagefright grade jitters. She quietly assures TyLee that she will do fine and that, in the brief window wherein the audience is left hanging to build anticipation, that she will have their tech crew fashion TyLee an improvised microphone. 

 

Somewhat anxious Azula speaks to the crowd, thanking them for attending and showing interest in Sun warrior culture. She bids them a good night. It all comes out in a rather unpleasant rasp and she is under the impression that the crowd knows that they won’t be getting a full-scale encore. 

 

She waits behind stage for the rest of her band to continue their encore, filling the time with calling for an appointment with a doctor. Doctor Fing-Sho has an impeccable reputation with fellow musicians. The man has even worked with some of the legends such as the frontman of Wan Shi Tong’s Waltz.

 

Unfortunately he is booked through the better part of the week. It makes her nervous being so close to Southern Air Sounds. She books herself soonest appointment--a week from now and two weeks from Southern Air Sounds. 

That is much too close for comfort. Still, the last thing she needs is to go to a shadier doctor and have her voice truly ravaged. At the very least, from the sound of it, she will be in esteemed hands.

 

**.oOo.**

 

Kuvira is dressed to the nines. She had been anyhow; currently she is slipping out of her heels, Baatar holding her steady as she does so; the baby bump and her altered center of gravity are taking some getting used to. She moves the pair of shoes out of the doorway and begins taking off her jewelry. She slips each piece into her coat pocket starting with the earrings and ending with the bracelet and necklace. She leaves a single ring on her finger. 

The ring that Baatar had put there near the end of a rooftop dinner that had gone over well. 

 

It had been a surprisingly sweet ordeal. Kuvira just wanted to talk things over in the loft, but Baatar insisted on a fancier place. She had wanted to question in, but decided against doing so and caved. 

She supposes that it would have been lackluster to propose to her--for a second time--in her humble loft.

 

Mostly they had discussed matters of the band but with a sprinkle of personal issues. She hadn’t realized that she had made him feel insufficient and inadequate, like his ideas weren’t of substance. But Raava did she understand why he had been hurt when he had clarified. As far as Wrought Iron Machine went, directionally, at that point she was pretty open to anything and she guessed that, that alone made making amends less painful. He seemed to have so many ideas and she was willing to hear them out. It helped further that the food had satisfied a craving or two and that Baatar had requested one of her favorite songs to dine to. 

 

All in all, the only hiccup in their night had been the flashing of cameras. She had decided to let it go, under the impression that it was probably a good thing to let the public know that they were working things out.

 

Kuvira undresses and puts on something more comfortable before joining Baatar on the sofa. The man offers her a glass of wine. It amuses her how painfully oblivious he can be. She denies the glass and notes the look of disappointment on his face. She will clear that up in a moment. 

 

“You said that you had something else to tell me.” Baatar notes once the disappointment subsides. 

 

Kuvira nods. “Yes.” She pauses. “I am glad that you came back.” 

 

“I think that you’ve said that already.” He sips his own wind. “Several times.” 

 

“Yes, well…” She trails off. “It is hard to raise a child and manage a band on your own.” 

 

She is glad that it took him a moment to process what she’d just said, lest he choke on his drink. “Good thing we don’t have a kid.” He laughs awkwardly. 

 

Kuvira raises a brow. “Not yet.” She lifts her pajama top some. 

 

For a relatively short span of time Baatar simply takes to staring at the bump she holds her hand to. After coming to conclude that he isn’t just teasing him he cups his hand over hers and gives her the kind kiss she has missed. 

It suddenly seems so ridiculous that she had almost let the man go over a matter so trivial. 

 

She lets him lean against her as they had done so many times before. Much to the annoyance of Gazahn they fell asleep on the sofa, leaving him unable to sit upon it and watch his favorite movers. 

  
  


**.oOo.**

 

Azula rigidly sits in the doctor’s office. Zuko sits across the room with Mai and TyLee is next to her, gripping her hand. Fing-Sho enters with a simple greeting. After introductions are aside he begins with a standard check up. Save for her beaten voice, she is in good condition, not that she had expected any different. 

 

It isn’t until his hands, coated in spirit-vine sap, feel her throat that concern flashes across his face. He is quiet for a moment. “Do you want…”

 

“I want you to get straight to the point.” Azula cuts in. She doesn’t mean to be rude, yet she needs to know what she is dealing with. 

 

“If the spirit vines have painted the right picture, I believe that you have a cyst on your vocal cords.”

 

Azula swallows, she can feel tears welling behind her eyes. Logic tells her to ask how it is possible. But she already knows. She knows that she hasn’t quite taken care of her voice. “Can you fix it?” She asks instead. 

 

“I believe so.” He smiles. 

 

It is a relief to hear. 

 

“It will take surgery followed by some vocal therapy.”

 

“When can you perform the operation?” Zuko asks for her. 

 

Fing-Sho peers at his clipboard and then back up at Azula. “I will place an order for the proper equipment, it should arrive anywhere from two to three weeks from now--most likely three, if you want the best quality equipment--we can begin then.”

 

The tearful pressure behind her eyes intensifies. Two weeks would land her an appointment during Southern Air Sounds. Three would allow for the competition to pass with her voice still in disrepair. She swallows again. 

 

“Until then, I recommend that you refrain from speaking more than necessary. Don’t put any excess strain on your vocal cords or you might do some permanent damage.” 

 

At this Azula’s throat runs dry.

How can they have come so far only to lose their opportunity at the last minute? 

 

**.oOo.**

 

It is a controlled chaos that they have created. A strange blend of brass and classical string instruments with a dash of modern guitars. 

They don’t have the luxury of traveling far and wide so they look closer to home. They have happened upon an abandoned and tattered theater and that is strangely perfect for the new, new sound.

 

It is a jarring blend of orchestra and jazz, sweeping from one genre to the next and sometimes all at once. Hectic and frenzied like the turmoil of having to switch sounds. Such is the nature of their lyrics. The disorientation of trying something new. The fear behind the risk. 

 

The darkness of the theater dusty cobwebbed theater seems to highlight what it means to go in blind. A ray of sunlight filters in through the cracked window. Dust motes sparkle within it, casting an effect that would be pleasant for their music mover. 

 

The sunlight also puts a glimmer on the collar of Kuvira’s dress. She wears a deep green gown that hugs tightly to her figure. She knows that the public will discover her pregnancy on their own so she may as well just make it apparent in her music mover. Next to her, Baatar has himself dressed in a velvet dress coat with copper buttons and a brown top hat. His task is to conduct the orchestra as she sings. 

 

A little over four months along, Kuvira has to take breaks more frequently, with the baby starting to kick and shift with more energy. She seats herself in one of the dusty velvet cushioned chairs. She fixes her gaze to stare out of the window. She is beginning to worry that they still won’t be able to perform at Southern Air Sounds; on occasions the baby will shift in just the wrong way, leaving her short of breath. She supposes that she’ll only have to get through three songs; two old and one new. Even so, by the time Southern Air Sounds rolled around, she will find herself nearly five months pregnant; she can’t imagine that, that will make it any easier. 

 

The rest of her band is mercifully patient as she waits for the ache in her back to pass. Ghazan in particular seems to enjoy being able to take frequent breaks. Baatar ends his conversation with P’Li and comes to stand beside Kuvira. “Orange?” He offers, handing her the fruit. He also hands her a bottle of water. She decides that she will put an end to her break as soon as she is through with the orange. Baatar offers her shoulders a gentle massage. 

She is glad to have the man back. Raava knew she couldn’t handle this one on her own. She supposes that she can if she has to, but she certainly doesn’t want to. She stands back up, ready to resume the filming process.

 

Despite the physical setbacks, filming is easier this time around, more comfortable in a sense. For one, she doesn’t have sand coating every part of her body. For another she feels as though the music and the mover themselves are on par with past works. It gives her a sense of ease to know that Baatar’s vocals are complementing hers once more. That the fandom will enjoy the reunion. That they are looking forward to their redemption music mover. 

 

She still finds it hard to believe that they will manage to finish this video and song in such a timely manner and with almost a whole week to spare.


	23. The Sound

Azula thinks herself to be recklessly ambitious at best and something of a flat out fool at worst. She dresses herself in tribal wear. Around her neck and in her hair, she wears a splendid plume of bright red and yellow feathers with a dash of orange here and there. Equally adorned in feathers is a gold fringed bra with many beads and dangling gems. It is a risky apparel choice for a high scale event. But Fire Of Agni is high risk--everything about them. In way of a skirt she wears an authentic Sun Warrior piece--all four of them will wear such. They will all perform barefoot and with a simple golden band around their biceps. 

Her hair is tied up in a high ponytail, fashioned into a golden cuff. In her bangs are a few wooden beads. Under her eyes are three horizontal  finger trails of golden face paint. 

 

Zuko stands at the opposite end of the room, entirely topless, exposing his new chest piercings. Azula had questioned that decisions but ultimately it is up to him what he has pierced. He too has weaved some feathers into his hair. Alongside the vertical face paint over his unscarred eye is a similar trail down his chest. 

 

Trying to use her voice as little as possible, Azula motions TyLee over. The girl skips over. She has gone overboard on the feathers. Azula pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “You’re going to have to pluck some of those feathers.” She instructs in a whisper. She helps TyLee pick a few feathers from her braid and her outfit. She replaces them with a wood-bead necklace. 

 

“Can you give me a hand?” Mai asks from across the room. She instructs Zuko where to weave the shells into her hair, muttering something about how she’ll have the stylists fix it later. She waves off Zuko’s reluctance with a flick of a wrist decorated with a bamboo and palm leaf bracelet. She fingers the shark tooth necklace Zuko gifted to her.

 

After fussing a tad more with TyLee’s outfit, Azula turns her attention back to her own appearance. Her stylist finally emerges with overly large gold-plate earrings. With careful hands they fix them into her ears and begin brushing her hair. She watches the other members of their makeup artist team get to work on the other three. She instructs the man doing her hair to give it some waves. 

 

“Oh you look so, so cute, Azula!”

 

She is going for fierce, perhaps even a little feral. But she doesn’t protest, she has to save her voice for more pressing things. Instead she nods in way of a thank you. 

 

“You all look so cute!” TyLee claps her hands together. She fishes around in her personal bag and snaps a few photos. Azula frowns, she wasn’t picture read. TyLee throws her arms around her and snuggles her. 

 

“Careful with my make up.” Azula says softly. “We don’t have time to do it all over again.”

 

“Oh sorry.” TyLee loosens her hold.

 

As soon as she runs up to Mai, Zuko approaches her. “Are you sure you want to do this? You can just play your guitar and TyLee can fill in for you.”

 

Azula shakes her head. “I need to do this Zuko.”

 

She sees him bite the inside of his lip. She is worrying him. 

 

“I’ll be fine.” Azula insists as as one of the makeup artists adds a few final touches. “I promise.”

 

Their crew packs up their tools and Azula motions for her bandmates to stand before her.

When all is said and done, Azula is satisfied. She has worked hard to design their costumes and they have come together just as perfectly as she had planned. Perhaps, better, with their hair and makeup in order. 

Her content smile fades. 

She can’t help but feel as though they’ve gotten all dressed up for nothing. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

Kuvira stands in her dressing room, her stylist just having finished fashioning her hair into a elegant and braided low side bun. It had been tricky to find the perfect outfit so last minute, having something custom made had been out of the question. So instead she wears something she found a second-hand store of all places. Deep forest green in color and with a high, black collar. She had handed it over to the band designer and let the woman and her team make tweaks and adjustments. To make it into something more unique. The woman hasn’t failed her. Her stitchwork is impressive with lovely embroidered patterns. She has taken it upon herself to adorn the hem and sleeves with black gems and sequins. All in all it is a rather ritzy gown.

 

Baatar chooses to wear the dress suit and top hat from the music video. Their designer pins a few broaches to the left chest area; their logo, a guitar, a saxaphone, and a music note among other small symbols. 

 

She slips into the dress and asks Baatar to help her with the zipper. To her relief it goes up without a hitch. She smooths the fabric down and drapes her arms over Baatar’s shoulders. He kisses her on the cheek, sending her teardrop earrings swaying. “You’re going to do wonderful tonight.”

 

Kuvira rubs his shoulders. “As long as you’re here I will.” 

 

The man flushes and rubs the back of his head. She intends to draw the small moment out.  But P’Li barges in. “Have you seen my monocle anywhere?”

 

“Have you tried your own dressing room?” Kuvira quirks a brow. 

 

“That’s the first place I checked.” She grumbles, pushing at her conductors hat. The V shaped tail of her suit flap about as she picks her way through the room. Her dress shoes click loudly on the ground. 

 

“I found it!” Ghazan calls. He gives P’Li a second to look over before tossing the eyepiece to her. The man standing in the doorway looks more suave than he has in a long while in his long tailcoat with his beard and long sweep of hair combed and styled nicely for a change. He has a few copper pieces threaded into his hair and beard, she could imagine that Ming fancied it. 

 

The woman appears next to him clad in a pair of over-large goggles and a pair of loose fitting overalls. In the pocket are a faux wrench and a faux hammer, they will serve as her drumsticks tonight. 

 

Fashion-wise they are at their best, they will match well with the mechanic, orchestral atmosphere they are trying to create while Kuvira does her best to represent the jazz side of the band. 

With luck, they will bring their crowd into a new world, at least for the twenty or so minutes it takes them to play their introduction and sing their three songs. 

 

Kuvira checks her makeup a final time and asks her stylist to highlight her beauty mark a little more as another works to curl a few more strands of loose hair. She inspects the other three and asks if they have any final requests. 

 

“Make my face look more dusty.” Ming instructs. A good idea if she is going to be playing a mechanic. 

 

The stylists take a step back and Kuvira takes it with them. She observes the band as a whole, finding herself satisfied. She goes to join them and motions for their photographer to do his thing. The camera flashes. 

 

Kuvira picks up her decorative cane and leads them to the designated seating area. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

They watched an hour’s worth of bands some of them more pleasing than others. Though she absolutely hated some of them, stylistically--Kyoshi’s Power Fist to name one--but regardless they were all undoubtedly talented. Kyoshi’s Power Fist, if nothing else had been unique with their corpse paint and guttural vocals. They were among the new debuts. It is the very same category Fire Of Agni are about to perform under.  

 

Azula is dissatisfied to know that, that meant she will be among the first few bands to perform. But they are the last of the newer bands. With luck the crowd has been warmed up enough. 

 

Standing behind the curtain she is horrifically nervous, maybe even downright terrified. But they need this. They need this more than anything or they will have nothing. Nothing but a smug Ozai taunting them. She is a mess up away from having to resort to begging the man to take her back.

 

“You’re gonna do great.” TyLee gives her a quick kiss. On a normal day it would have washed the nerves away.

 

“I hope so.” 

She hears the announcement and they are on stage. It puts a dismal pang in her heart to leave the introduction fully to Zuko. “It took a lot to get here.” He announces. “When we started out we could barely scrape together a simple music mover. We were just a small candle.” 

 

The crowd cheers. 

 

“Now we’re here.” He pauses. “And our Fire Of Agni can’t be extinguished.” 

 

The knot returns to her belly; perhaps water and bad press can’t put them out. But a small cyst can smother them completely. 

 

“Get ready Southern Air Sounds, because we…”

 

“Are the flame!” The crowd chants over him. 

 

Without missing a beat, Azula tears into the first song that they have written. Normally she would save that one for last, but Agni forbid she can’t make it through the whole show. She wants to start strong. 

 

The guitar wails in her hands, in tune with Mai’s bass. TyLee is surrounded by a collection of drums both standard and tribal. If all went according to plan, her drum display will be surrounded by a ring of dancing flame. 

 

So far things are going well, she is forcing out her screams, powerful as ever while Zuko provides backing vocals and a steady flow of fire. Halfway through she sends a thin trail of flames in the direction of TyLee. The wall dances around their drummer as she wails on the cymbals. With each hit, Azula and Zuko flare the flames higher until the song fades out. 

 

The crowd is frantic with cheers. So much so that Zuko almost can’t announce their second song. One of their newer ones. Azula passes her guitar to him so that she can move through a Sun Warrior traditional belly dance. It is something of a cop out, but she likes to think it a clever one. Fire Of Agni has never performed an instrumental version of any of their songs. Not until now. But it leaves a critical window of rest for Azula’s tortured vocal cords. 

 

She tries not to dwell on the injury as TyLee begins. Instead she sets the scene, trying her best to imitate what her music mover had in terms of the haunting blue lighting. TyLee is doing a stunning job of creating a foreboding sound. It is a low and rhythmic pounding of a large fox-deer hide drum. TyLee beats upon it slow and steady with a single drumstick nearly as large as the drum itself. Next to her stands a newly hired woman. She is draped in a feathered cloak with a shekere. Every few beats, the woman gives it a shake. For herself, Azula occasionally gives her rainstick a shift. With each beat a new cloaked figure emerges. One stands with a kora gitar another stands with a small balafon. TyLee has worked tirelessly to teach others to play djembe drums and bongos among other things. TyLee ends the ominous intro with a hit on a gong. A moment of pause and Zuko and Mai begin with their guitar and bass respectively. 

 

Azula has worked just as tirelessly as TyLee to learn this traditional dance inside and out. The beads in her hair smack against her neck and back as she goes through the twirling parts of the dance. The gems stones glimmer across her middle as she shifts and rolls her waistline. The crowd is wholly quiet, they listen more closely than they have in a long while. Towards the end of the song, the guitar and bass fall silent.  The song tapers off into a rhythmic beating of the drums. And Zuko comes to dance with her. A highly intimate dance. Close with his body pressed against hers and his hands trailing over her torso. 

That is when she spies Ozai in the crowd. The man crosses his arms, his face the picture of disgust. 

Azula ignores the man, her performance is better than it ever has been and she isn’t going to sabotage it just to make the man uncomfortable.

 

By the end of their dance the room falls into complete silence again. They leave no room for cheers and get right into their final song. The song Azula has been dreading. The one with the shrillest shriek midway through. 

 

Her voice seems to have already reached its limit by the end of the first chorus. Her mind screams at her to cut the show short. But ambition takes over. She moves into the tricky climax of the song. She lets out a scream but it isn’t the one she had in mind. Her voice cracks and pain sears through her throat.  

It is instinct to try to cry out in pain.

 

She fights back tears. 

And she makes a mistake. 

She looks into the crowd. 

 

The smirk on Ozai’s face is wickedly smug. 

 

Azula’s stomach lurches. He has come to watch her fall and he is getting the show he paid for. Her voices has failed her. 

She has failed her band. 

Failed herself.

 

**.oOo.**

 

Kuvira cringes at the sound that tears from her rival’s throat. Reflexively, she grips Baatar’s hand. It isn’t normal. It is pained and horrible. And she feels some sort of secondhand agony. 

 

There is something overwhelmingly unsettling about watching the poor girl get escorted by a team of paramedics from the stage. It is a wonder the girl is keeping herself together. Deep down, Kuvira knows that the girl will break behind the curtains. 

 

She looks to Baatar who wears a sympathetic grimace.

 

But the fire isn’t extinguished. The band pushes on with the girl’s brother taking her parts and the drummer taking his. Kuvira is impressed with their quick thinking. Though it leaves her with a sneaking suspicion that they were well aware that the girl was having vocal trouble. 

 

Kuvira is left with way too much time to dwell on it. She finds it hard to pay attention to any of the following bands. She can’t focus on Tears Of Yue, the new band she had been looking forward to. She hopes that she will calm by the time Wan Shi Tong’s Waltz, the very band that inspired her to start her own, took to the stage. They are on after her band, she is thankful for that. With luck she will be able to watch them and enjoy them in full without having to worry about her nerves. 

For the time though, they are frayed and frenzied. She simply can’t get the sound of the Fire Of Agni girl’s faltering scream out of her mind. Out of her ears.

 

She forces it to the back of her mind as she is beckoned backstage. 

Wrought Iron Machine is one of the last bands to perform. It is both intimidating and thrilling. She knows how these shows work, they start with lesser known bands to warm up the crowd and move into the esteemed and renowned ones. She is starstricken to be among them. Only Tui & La, Chong And The Nomads, and Wan Shi Tong’s Waltz perform after them. 

 

It settles her anxiousness some to know that, even if they don’t win, they are famous enough to perform nearly last. They are on in ten minutes. That leaves her with ten minutes to sooth her baby. She is under the impression that her own anxiousness has reached the child-to-be. She rubs circles on her belly in an attempt to get the baby to stop squirming so much. It takes Baatar kissing her belly and murmuring something soft and cooing to sooth the babe. Baatar rests his hands on her waist and presses his forehead to hers until they are called onto the stage. 

 

They have a few extra minutes as their full orchestra plays through an extended version of what will be their newest album. 

 

“Let’s kick some fuckin’ ass everyone!” P’Li shouts, as Ghazan pops a bottle. He fills all of their glasses until he comes to Kuvira, “sorry, none for you.” With a boyish grin he skips over her glass and fills Baatar’s. 

 

“Fuck you too, Ghazan.” Kuvira jests. 

 

“Here.” Ming holds out one of her watery arms. “Drink.” 

 

“Gee, thanks, Ming.” 

 

Baatar chuckles.   

 

They set their glasses to the side. P’Li and Ghazan make their way on stage first. Ming waits for the claps to die down before following them. And then She and Baatar wait for round two to die off. She lets the venue go completely quiet before they walk, hand in hand, onto the stage. Her cane thumps on the floor and echos. 

 

She skips the greetings and goes right into her operatic introduction. After another moment of quiet Baatar and P’Li start in with their lead and rhythm guitar and Ghazan follows with his bass and Ming with her drums. The orchestra doesn’t begin until the chorus. 

 

The set itself is a chaotic flurry of moving cogs, wheels, and spokes. A fully functioning and whirring machine that spits smoke and sparks at designated intervals. It doesn’t take on a particular shape, it is more or less a collection of clanging parts that look aesthetically pleasing.                                                                                                            

 

The crowd is hyper with an energetic buzz that they had lacked since Baatar’s near departure. Kuvira grins at the crowd. Their first song comes to a close and her nervousness give way to exilheration. “It’s wonderful to be here again.” Kuvira leaves a pause for applause. “How long has it been, Baatar?”

 

“Ten years.” He replies. 

 

“Ten years.” Kuvira repeats. “Ten years since we first came here. We were just a rookie group.” She runs her fingers through her hair. “Raava, I didn’t expect us to get this far.” The smile doesn’t leave her face. Because she has made it, they have made it. She wishes that her childhood self--even her teenage self--could see her. “For a second I thought that…”

 

Baatar rubs her back. “But we have. And of course we have the lot of you to thank for giving us enough attention to land a spot here.”

 

“And for supporting us despite our…” she considers her words. “Our mishap.” 

 

The crowd gives another uniformed cheer.

 

“You guys kick ass!” P’Li announces. 

 

Ghazan pulls out another bottle. “If you got a drink, you better drink with us. Most of us anyways, Kuvira still isn’t invited.” 

 

This time the crowd gives a few light-hearted boo’s. 

 

“Pregnant.” Ming points out. 

 

Another round of cheering. “Congratulations!” She can’t place where in the crowd the booming voice has come from. Kuvira gives a soft laugh, looking down to cover a light blush, and wipes some locks out of her face. “Thank you.”  

 

Ghazan finishes his toast and they enter their second song. She scans the crowd for the frontman of Wan Shi Tong’s Waltz. It sends a pleasant trill up and down her spine to see the man nodding his approval at their new take on jazz. It is surreal to have her idol staring up at her with approval. 

 

She unravels her braid and tosses her head back for the final note. 

 

She doesn’t think too much of it, moving into their final song just feels so natural. She may not be able to dance with her baby bump in the way, but she can still give the crowd a show. She puts extra care into her vocals; working with flawlessly through more difficult vibratos. 

 

She adds a flare of metalbending from shifting platforms up and down for she and her bandmates to stand upon to crafting herself a case of stairs to lean on when the baby started acting up. 

 

Normally with a crowd so energetic and lively she would enter it. But her management and doctors had advised against so she leaves that to Ghazan and P’Li, settling for simply brushing fingers with front row attendees. 

 

Ghazan and P’Li finish out the song from within the crowd. The last note echos about the venue only to be swallowed up by cheering and hollering. Kuvira is grinning rather uncontrollably. Perhaps even laughing. One hand falls to her baby bump and the other holds her microphone to her lips. She manages a few thank you’s before they are motioned off of the stage.

 

They have made it. 

Victory or none, they have left an impression. 


	24. After Party

It hasn’t taken long at all for the headlines to announce her vocal struggles and declining health, to have them plastered for everyone to see. Even if she wants to she can’t say anything on her own behalf. She reads another headline; ‘Has the Fire Been Put Out: Fire Of Agni Frontwoman Loses Voice.’

 

Azula sits in an emergency room back in the Fire Nation, they still don’t have the equipment to correct the worsened cyst. For the time they only monitor her vitals and pain-levels. She doesn’t think much about the pain though. Her head is preoccupied by the image of her father’s complacent look of satisfaction. By the realization that she had made a fool of herself at the world’s most extravagant and esteemed music competition. By the thought that she will never talk, much less,  sing again.

 

She doesn’t know which matter concerns her the most, she supposes that they are all interconnected. Even if she does recover, after unleashing such an Agni-awful, ear-piercing sound on stage she can’t imagine that she’ll be getting another invite to Southern Air Sounds. Her musical career is over. Her only option is to wander back to her father and hope that she can win him over with her firebending talents. She can’t beg him for another chance if she can’t speak. 

 

There is a pressure behind her eyes and she wants to let it out. But crying will only do more damage to her delicate vocal cords. The doctor warns as much. So she tries her best to choke back her embarrassment and grief. 

She truly hopes that she won’t hear from her father anytime soon, she can’t take it. Zuko takes a seat next to her and squeezes her hand. She appreciates his company and the gesture, but it is little condolences. Just as little as TyLee’s tight hugs and loving kisses. Mai tries to assure her that the crowd was kind. “They weren’t saying anything bad about you, you know? After the show everyone was just asking if you were okay.” 

 

“They were really worried.” Zuko adds. 

 

“Someone told me to give this to you!” TyLee smiles. She hands her a stuffed fire ferret and a get well soon card. Azula takes them without a sound, she barely looks up. She isn’t sure who is rubbing her back but she thinks that it is either Zuko or TyLee. 

 

“Do you…” she rasps but it is broken and painful so she ceases trying to vocalize her question. 

 

“Here.” Mai pushes her a pad of papers. She pushes it back, opting to spell her question in the air with fire. If she can’t speak she may as well make it look cool. With her fire she asks if they’ve been barred from attending S.A.S in the future. It is easier to simply use the acronym so that is what she does. 

 

“I don’t think so. We were doing amazing up until…” Mai trails off. 

 

“They said that they admired our creativity and ability to improvise.” Zuko points out. 

 

‘No thanks to me.’ She spells out. 

 

“Creativity!” TyLee points out. “They liked your idea to have an instrumental number. None of the other bands did that.” 

 

It is only a sliver of reassurance. At least she hasn’t completely messed up. She stares at her hands. She just wants her voice back. 

 

The pain finally begins setting in, it rips at her throat bringing tears to her eyes. 

 

Zuko’s back rubs increase. 

 

“Are you alright, Azula?” TyLee asks, her eyes sympathetic. 

 

She only has it in her to spell out, “hurts.” She curls herself up 

 

**.oOo.**

 

The temples are stunning, more stunning than Kuvira remembers. They have added some decorative chandeliers. She feels blessed that they have invited her to stay. She and the rest of her band have been invited to a dinner with the three bands that performed after hers. An unexpected but every bit as welcomed victory surprise. 

 

She triple checks her hair and attire. She has her hair in another neat and tight braided bun and has applied a touch of makeup to her face. “How is this, Baatar?” 

 

“I already told you that you look amazing.” He replies, “can we just have dinner?” 

 

“Yeah, I’m getting hungry and I hear that the wine is fantastic.” Ghazan remarks, putting his arm around Ming.  

 

“You’re always hungry.” P’Li remarks. 

 

“Correct.” He winks. 

 

Kuvira adds a comb hair clip to her outfit and checks the mirror for a fourth time. She wants to leave a good impression if she is going to be dining with musical legends. Baatar takes her hand and pulls her away from the mirror. “I think that that’s perfect.”

 

“You say that about everything I wear.” Kuvira points out. 

 

“Because everything you wear is perfect.” 

 

“Ugg.” P’Li grumbles. “Definitely didn’t miss that.” 

 

Kuvira unfolds a cloth map and leads her band down the hall. Baatar links his arm with hers. They wander for some time, stopping on one occasion to see the Southern Air hall of fame. It is organized by category from jazz to pop and folk to metal. Kuvira scans the category reserved for the musical legends, it is surreal to see an image of their band among them. It is from their performance three days prior.  

 

“Now Ming, don’t touch anything.” Ghazan says. 

 

“Ha. Funny man.” She mutters.

 

As they chatter, Kuvira wanders further down the hall viewing the metal category and finding a second image of Wrought Iron Machine. Still it is dream-like to see it hanging there in a frame of swirling gold. The rest of her band comes to catch up with her. She comes to the last category, a seemingly new sub category. There is only a single photograph in the section for bands with the most unique concepts. 

She wonders if they are even aware being as they were forced to depart so soon. 

 

Baatar nudges her, “we’re going to be late.” 

 

Kuvira picks up her pace and soon she is standing before a set of almost absurdly long double doors. The insignia of the air nomads is carved at the center of both of them. Kuvira takes a breath and smooths a few wrinkles out of her outfit. Baatar rubs her shoulders encouragingly. 

 

She heaves the doors open and makes her way to the empty chairs reserved for she and her band. “Welcome.” Greets Karou. The frontman of Wan Shi Tong’s Waltz sits at the head of the table, their dinner and competition host. 

 

It is somewhat hard to maintain composure, the result of some residual teenage crush that never had a chance to fully extinguish. 

 

“Thank you.” Baatar fills in for her. “We’re honored to be guests here.” 

 

Karou shakes their hands each in turn. “And I’d like to personally congratulate you for joining us in the hall of fame and for the baby. Perhapst the child will share your musical talents.” 

 

Kuvira smiles. “Thank you. I hope the same.” Even if the child has other interests she makes a very special point to let them flourish. “Though she may take up Baatar’s fascination with machines.” 

 

Another woman speaks, Xing-Bora from Tears of Yue. “I think we should also congratulate the two of you for saving your marriage and the band.”

 

“It’s a wonder you all pulled through so close to the competition.” Remarks Chong. “What was that about anyways?” 

 

His own wife nudges him. “Apologies, he still has is countryside manners.”   

 

P’Li scoffs, “we’ll forgive him if you all forgive Ghazan for being a human disaster.” 

 

“It’s a long story.” Kuvira cuts in before they can start a secondhand embarrassment inducing round of bickering. “To put it simply, even though I let him name the band,” Kuvira sneaks in, “he felt as though he didn’t get enough creative freedom.” 

 

Baatar rubs the back of his head. “A man needs to show his brilliance every now and again.” 

 

Conversation breaks off momentarily as appetizers are passed around. Kuvira resumes the chatter with a simple. “It was a pleasure to see you perform.” An understatement. 

 

“And a pleasure to listen to your band as well.” Karou returns cheerfully. “I was hoping that you would be willing to perform during our next competition.” He pauses. “Of course, you won’t be able to perform as a contestant. Instead you will be performing with us during the esteemed after-competition show.”

 

“We certainly plan on it.” Kuvira replies. Though she isn’t entirely certain what ten years will bring. How their child will impact their band. She decides to take things as they come and hope for the best. 

 

“It will be hard to top this decade’s contest.” Chong notes. 

 

“It was certainly eventful.” Xing-Bora remarks. “It’s a shame about Fire of Agni…” 

 

“How is the girl?” Chong’s wife asks. 

 

“If the headlines are to be trusted, she’s due for surgery sometime within the month.” Karou replies. 

 

“I hope that it works.” Chong’s wife says softly. 

 

“Yes,” Kuvira adds. “She…” she isn’t sure if she should use past or present tense. She feels optimistic. “She has a very unique talent, I don’t think that I’ve heard a voice like hers.” Again, her heart pangs for the girl. 

 

“I thought that your band didn’t like theirs.” 

 

“It was a phase.” P’Li waves her hand dismissively. “We needed someone to shit talk so we wouldn’t shit talk each other.”

 

“We did it anyways.” Ghazan shrugged.

 

“No less, the kids have talent.” Karou speaks. “I would love to see them back next time around. They have it in them to win if Azula makes a full recovery. They have it in them to win even if she only recovers partially.” 

 

Their discussion dies down again as the main course is set before them. Kuvira takes the opportunity to gaze at the other tables; like their own two others are lined with golden tablecloths. They host other past winners of Southern Air Sounds. The ones lined in silver host the second placers and the honorable mentions. And a bunch of others tables a reserved for audience members and bands that had paid to have seating. She sees four empty spots at the silver tables. Karou follows her gaze. “We figured that it would be respectful to have a spot open for them even if they can’t fill them.” 

 

Kuvira nods. 

 

The rest of their dinner is mundane. She inquires some about the bands and styles that have influenced Wan Shi Tong’s Waltz and Ghazan makes a few off-color remarks as the beer gets to him. Ming really only speaks to ask why her ice cream is topped with two cherries while everyone else only has one. It is more laid back than she has anticipated. And it goes by much faster. It seems as though they have barely finished desert when guests start heading for the door. 

 

Karou turns to her and hands her an envelope. “Your prize money and an invite to our next competition.”

 

Kuvira will have to split the prize money when she gets a chance. 

 

“If you run into Fire of Agni before they receive their letter, do tell them that they have been invited.” 

 

“I can hand them their letter personally.”

 

**.oOo.**

 

The surgery leaves her terribly anxious. They say that it can ruin her voice. All the same she wonders if it even matters, she has already done that herself.  She does wish, though, that they hadn’t told her of the possibility of something going wrong enough to kill her. On the other hand, she no longer knows if she is entirely opposed to that.

She faintly thinks that she is being overly dramatic. If nothing else she still has TyLee. She still has Zuko and Mai. 

The three have worked so hard to uplift her spirits. To remind her not to bother with her father. To remind her that she still has a spot in the band. They don’t tell her how, they leave her to remind herself that she can still play the guitar. That she can still organize the band and design their sets and write their lyrics. 

 

She repeats the reminders to herself as TyLee pulls her into her arms. She doesn’t particularly want to be held at the moment, she has received enough pity and babying, but she doesn’t resist either. TyLee holds her tightly, it is almost too brief because a nurse comes to beckon her forward. 

 

Azula listens to them explain the procedure to her, cringing inwardly at some of the descriptors. After a certain point she wonders if she even wants to know. She decides that she does, she wants to know exactly what to expect. 

 

Not long after, she finds herself drifting into a drug induced sleep. 

 

She wakes up groggy. She opens her mouth to speak but is immediately scolded. It takes her mind a moment to catch back up with her. The words die on her lips. She sits herself upright, they let her do so but it leaves her feeling dizzy so she goes to lay back down. Zuko holds her up as TyLee props a pillow up for her. She scans the room for Mai and finds the girl leaning against the wall as quietly as ever. 

 

Doctor Fing-Sho reappears, taking a seat next to her bed. “I have a few instructions for you.”

 

Azula nods. 

 

“Obviously I advise that you talk as little as possible for the first two weeks, perhaps three. When you do speak, be brief. Don’t yell or try to sing.” He pauses and she nods her understanding again. “Your voice will sound very hoarse. This can last up to eight weeks. We can start vocal therapy during week three. I know I said you can begin talking more after two weeks, but I would like to play on the safe side. You are very lucky that we were able to fix the damage you’ve done.” 

 

Azula subtly gnaws the inside of her cheek. 

 

“With that said, I recommend that you find yourself a vocal trainer who specializes in musical techniques.”

 

Azula nods once more. 

 

“Finally, you have a visitor.”  Fing-Sho smiles. 

 

Azula knits her brows and then the panic sets in. Rather quickly she spells with fire, that she doesn’t want to see her father. 

 

“It’s not your father.” The doctor replies. 

 

Using her fire she vocalizes her approval and Fing-Sho beckons her visitor into the room. Azula tries to hide a scowl when she sees the face of the woman who she’d handed her victory over to. Kuvira makes herself as comfortable as she can in a hospital chair. She rests one hand on the arm rest and her other on her belly. “I hope you don’t mind me coming by.” 

 

Azula absolutely does, but she doesn’t use her fire to depict as much. 

 

“I actually came by to give you something.” She holds an envelope out.

 

Azula reaches for it and her brows knit again at the sight of the seal. 

 

“There was an after party of sorts. I spoke to Karou, he says that he hopes to see you at the next competition. 

 

Azula’s face softens, the woman is doing a good job of breaking the ice whether she wants to admit it or not. 

 

“He believes that you will do well even if you don’t make a full recovery, I don’t know if that makes things any better.” 

 

This time she does let the woman know that it does not. 

 

Kuvira gives a small laugh. “I didn’t think so. Not much made me feel better when Fing-Sho worked with me…”

 

Azula tilts her head so Kuvira elaborates. 

 

“Awhile back...a long while, Wrought Iron Machine tried to do something like your first album. I don’t have the vocal type you do. I messed my voice up rather quickly trying to force something that I wasn’t good at.” She shrugs. 

 

“Why are you here?” Zuko asks. “Your band hates ours.” 

 

Kuvira shrugs a second time. “We don’t hate your band. We just...got a little competitive.” 

 

_ How diplomatic _ , Azula thinks to herself.

 

“We were falling out of the limelight and you were in it.”

 

She is the jealous type. 

 

“You’ve created a sound that no one has heard before and...we wanted to do that for ourselves.” She pauses. “A success by the way.”

 

“Well congratulations.” Mai grumbles, “it’s our turn to be on the bottom.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.” Kuvira replies. “I meant that your creation was a success. You have a spot in the Southern Air Sounds hall of fame for it.”

 

“We do?” TyLee smiles. 

 

“Yes, you do.” She turns back to Zuko. “To answer your question; I’m here to make amends.”

 

Azula frowns. She has very little interest in the woman, she is condescending and self-righteous. She folds her arms over her chest and glowers at Kuvira. The woman looks terribly unfazed. Azula supposes that she isn’t all that intimidating in a hospital gown and without her voice. 

 

“You remind me of myself. You have reckless ambition. A drive to make it to the top.” She pauses again. “I’ve only ever seen that kind of determination when it’s all or nothing.” Again she halts. “Mine comes from spite I suppose. My parents thought that my dreams were foolish so they dumped me on the side of the road for trying to pursue them. I was hoping that my appearance in Southern Air Sounds...” She breaks off. “I just thought that they would show up. For some reason I expected them to. I don’t think that they even know who I am anymore.”    

 

Azula wishes that the woman hadn’t shared because now there is a sort of connection, now she feels inclined to hear the woman out. Zuko speaks first. “I don’t know if you heard about it but Azula and I didn’t leave home willingly either. 

 

Kuvira nods empathetically. “I had a feeling. I know what an abandoned child looks like…”

 

She remains quiet in thought for a long while. “That’s also why I’m here. I have another offer for you.”

 

**.oOo.**

 

The house is quiet. Quiet and empty. She and Baatar haven’t quite gotten around to moving all of their furniture in. P’Li, Ghazan, and Ming-Hua have taken to exploring their new neighborhood. Kuvira herself decides to stay home and try to tidy the place up a bit, plan out how she’d like to lay out their furniture. She looks over Baatar’s ideas, deciding that they are probably good enough. The man in question is away as well, somewhere between his childhood home and their new one, driving a large satomobile full of their possessions. She would love to help but they are down to the heaviest of their belongings and she has already received a good scolding from her doctor against heavy lifting. 

 

Eventually she resigns to that she is six months along and needs to take it easy. She supposes it isn’t so bad, she hasn’t left him totally alone. He has help from his brothers and from Zuko. Most comfortingly, he has Lin’s assistance. Kuvira is half convinced that the very reason so much progress has been made in their move because of Lin alone. 

 

Azula wanders into the nearly barren room, Kuvira didn’t hear her come in and wonders how long she has been there. She doesn’t talk much and Kuvira, at first, assumed that the girl was still weary of hurting her voice further. But she has come to find that the firebender is simply a quieter person. When she does speak it is typically soft-spoken. The kind of soothing timbre Kuvira had been expecting and not expecting all at once. Looking at her, it makes perfect sense but after hearing only her music for so long it is hard to imagine her speaking so softly.

 

“How was therapy.” 

 

“It was…” she thinks for a moment, “it went better than last time.” There is still a hoarser undertone to her voice, but the raspiness is becoming less pronounced as the healing process continues. 

 

Kuvira has cup of tea ready. It is still steaming when she pours it for the girl. “Here, drink.” 

 

Azula takes the cup in her hands. “Uncle makes better tea.”

 

The girl has a bit of a difficult temperament, Kuvira has learned to brush off her more prickly moods. She no longer takes the more off-handed commentary to heart. 

 

“It’s not the taste that matters, it’s the effect.” Raava knows that the girl has fought her on this many a times. Kuvira stands by her opinion; as long as the tea can help soothe the girl’s throat, it is serving its purpose. 

 

Azula routinely argues that Kuvira should learn to make better tea if she is going to make her drink it every other day. 

 

“Have a seat.” Kuvira offers only to have the firebender decline. 

 

“I like standing.” She sips at the tea, just once before holding it over a small fire in her palm.

 

“I’ve never seen firebending like that.”

 

“It’s actually quite common for firebenders to heat their tea like this.”

 

Kuvira rolls her eyes, feeling a faint hint of amusement. “I’ve never seen someone use blue fire.” 

 

Azula gives a prideful smile. “Good. I like to think that it is something only I can do.” 

 

The remark is the loudest Kuvira has heard from the girl since adopting her. She wonders if the firebender’s voice had always been this soft or if it is the product of her injury. She tries to recall one of Fire Of Agni’s interviews. Before she can truly reach a decision her thoughts are cut off by a very loud and very cheerful, “Oh Azula! You’re home!” Kuvira watches the other girl throw her arms around Azula who returns the gesture by awkwardly patting her girlfriend’s head.

 

“It’s good to see you too, Ty.” 

 

Kuvira finds it hard to resist making an inquiry. “Was her voice always this quiet?”

 

TyLee thinks for a moment. “Hmmm. Sort of. She used to talk a little louder, but not that much.” 

 

“You need more tea.” Kuvira declares, needing an excuse to be on her feet. 

 

“You need to get out of the house.” Azula shoots back.

 

The girl isn’t entirely wrong. But her tone of voice comes with a touch of sass. Kuvira supposes that it will do her well to get used to it. Her baby will be a teen eventually. Raising--though she uses the term loosely--the former princess, her brother, and friends has been an interesting feat to say the least. She doesn’t know how Suyin has managed to raise all of her children and Kuvira herself.

 

“I suppose that I will when Baatar gets home.” Kuvira says at last. 

 

“What are you going to name it?” TyLee changes the subject.

 

Before she can give her answer Azula grumbles, “you better not name it after Karou.” 

 

“We had two names in mind.” Kuvira replies. “Setsuko and Kotone.”

 

“Setsuko.” Azula casts her vote and TyLee nods in agreement. 

 

Azula hands Kuvira her cup. “I don’t know what you want me to do with this.”

 

“Whatever my servants used to do with them.” Azula shrugs. 

 

“I’m not your servant. I’m your mother.” It is still somewhat strange to say. 

 

Frowning, Azula hands the cup to TyLee who flounces over to the sink and washes it. Kuvira rolls her eyes. One of these days she will have to get the girl to do her own dishes. 

 

It would seem as though TyLee doesn’t share any of the awkward feelings. “Are you coming to or show tonight, mom? It’s our first one since S.A.S.” 

 

“I’ll be there.” She replies.

 

“Good because it’s going to be my first time singing that many songs. And Azula has been really working hard on learning to play the guitar.” 

 

“I thought that you already knew how to play it.”

 

“I put more focus into singing.” Azula shrugs. “But if I can’t do that, I might as well make myself known for play the guitar better than everyone else.” 

 

So that is why Ghazan has been strumming his bass so intensely. She wonders if it is truly possible that her fiance is in an unspoken competition with a teenager. It begins to dawn on Kuivra that she has created a very bizarre family for herself. She supposes that she likes it this way, it keeps her occupied.

 

**.oOo.**

 

The past few months leave the former princess wondering why she had gone out of her way to create scandals and article material. Headlines seem to be coming left and right these days. The headlines have long since made note of Kuvira adopting four fire children with speculations ranging from simple observations to theories that they are about to form one large band. 

 

The chatter of that had only just died down when Azula’s former rival found herself to be the subject of a new brand of talk with a slew of invasive journalists trying to get the first shot of the woman’s newborn. A separate news article reported P’Li landing a good punch on one of the particularly eager ones.

 

For herself, Azula’s voice and the state of it are in constant discussion. The latest article unveils her plans to begin singing again. For the time it will  be reserved for the recording studio only and depending on how that goes, she will be singing on stage when they tour alongside Wrought Iron Machine. 

 

She is reluctant to thank Kuvira. Albeit a bit overbearing, the woman has gone out of her way to pass down a few of the vocal technique and warm ups she has learned. With the woman occupied by her baby girl, Azula almost misses having her lingering in the studio with her. But she has TyLee for company. Soon she will have Zuko and Mai as well. They are late again because Zuko refuses to leave without his beanie. Maybe if her brother kept his room more organized, he wouldn’t run into such a struggle. Perhaps she can get Kuvira to nag the boy. Such is another area of common ground; they both wish that one of their bandmates could tidy up a bit. 

 

All in all, she is growing used to and fond of referring to the metalbender as her mother. She is closer to her than she had been with her real mother. And the woman, though prone to being somewhat of a hardass is kinder than her own father ever was. She is nearly at a point where she doesn’t miss her real parents at all. But if Kuvira is anything to go by, the disappointment never truly leaves. 

 

Azula uses the spare time to get her new lyrics in order and her equipment adjusted. Her line of thinking switches. She is somewhat nervous to be back in the studio. Doctor Fing-Sho insists that her vocal cords are mostly healed, that the therapy is doing them very well. Yet there is still a faint tingle at the back of her mind that she can tear them apart again. 

Screaming is still off of the table, at least for the time being. She is allowed a line or two of harsh vocals but it is advised that she doesn’t perform a set with them every single night. For now she will leave Zuko with that job and take up the gentler vocals. 

 

No matter how solid her plan is she still feels vaguely insecure. The change is so subtle but she still finds that she can’t speak as loudly as before and there is still a very slight rasp to her voice that is going to take some getting used to. 

Perhaps it will make her stand out. It isn’t a vocal quality many others have. TyLee speculates as much anyhow. 

 

Finally the door opens. But it is not Zuko who enters. 

Kuvira leans in the doorway Setsuko in one arm and a tea set in the other. Azula admires the woman’s creativity, she uses a metal platter, bending it to keep the porcelain on it from falling.

 

“I wrote a letter to the Jasmine Dragon a while back.” She says as she sets the tea set down. She brushes her fingers over the baby’s cheek. “You better like it this time.”

 

“Thank you.” Azula picks up the cup. It is heated to a satisfactory degree, things are off to a good start. 

 

Baatar appears in the doorway. “Suyin says that she can watch Setsuko while we reccord tomorrow.” 

 

“Thank Raava.” Kuvira mutters. She hands the baby over to the man.

Azula notes that the woman definitely looks worn. Her hair is some straggly and she is still wearing pajama bottoms. Baatar slips his free arm around the woman’s waist. 

 

“What are you going to do today?” Azula asks.

 

“While Baatar watches Setsuko, I was going to take P’Li to visit Zaheer in prison.”

 

Azula krinkles her brows. “Seriously.” 

 

Kuvira nods. 

 

“Have a grand time.” 

 

Kuvira laughs. “If you need anything just call Baatar.” 

 

Azula nods. As Kuvira and Baatar leave, Mai, TyLee, and Zuko make their appearance. “It’s about time. I was about to start on my solo album.” 

 

Zuko bumps her shoulder. “Good to have you back, Azula.”

 

It is nice to be in the studio again.


End file.
